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THE TITLE 



By ARNOLD BENNETT 
NOVELS 

THE ROLL-CALL 

THE PRETTY LADY 

THE lion's share 

THESE TWAIN 

CLAYHANGER 

HILDA LESSWAYS 

THE OLD wives' TALE 

DENRY THE AUDACIOUS 

THE OLD ADAM 

HELEN WITH THE HIGH HAND 

THE MATADOR OF THE FIVE TOWNS 

THE BOOK OF CARLOTTA 

BURIED ALIVE 

A GREAT MAN 

LEONORA 

WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 

A MAN FROM THE NORTH 

ANNA OF THE FIVE TOWNS 

THE GLIMPSE 

THE ITY OF PLEASURE 

THE GRAND BABYLON HOTEL 

HUGO 

THE GATES OF WRATH 

POCKET PHILOSOPHIES 

THE author's CRAFT 

MARRIED LIFE 

FRIENDSHIP AND HAPPINESS 

HOW TO LIVE ON 24 HOURS A DAY 

THE HUMAN MACHINE 

LITERARY TASTE 

MENTAL EFFICIENCY 

PLAYS 

THE TITLE 

THE GREAT ADVENTURE 
CUPID AND COMMONSENSE 
WHAT THE PUBLIC WANTS 
POLITE FARCES 
THE HONEYMOON 
IN COLLABORATION WITH EDWARD KNOBLAUCH 
MILESTONES 

MISCELLANEOUS 

PARIS NIGHTS 

THE TRUTH ABOUT AN AUTHOR 

liberty! 

OVER there: war scenes 

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
NEW YORK 



THE TITLE 



A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 



BY 
ARNOLD BENNETT 




NEW ^VS4r YORK 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 






Copyright y 1918, 
By George H. Dor an Company 



Printed vn the United States of America 



c;f? -5 1918 •■ • '^^ 



kV 



CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY 

Mr. Culver 
Mrs. Culver 

HiLDEGARDE CuLVER 1 , . , ., -i 

, ^ f their children. 

John Culver J 

Tranto 

Miss Starkey 

Sampson Straight 

Parlourmaid 



act I 

An evening between Christmas and New Year, before 

dinner. 

act ii 
The next evening, after dinner, 

act III 

The next day, before lunch. 

The scene throughout is a sitting-room in the well- 
furnished West End abode of the Culvers, There is 
a door bach. There is also another door l, leading 
to Mrs. Culver's boudoir and elsewhere. 



NOTES ON THE CHARACTERS AND THE 
INTERPRETATION 

This comedy has to be played lightly through- 
out, in the comic spirit. All the characters, at 
all moments, must indicate this spirit. 

Arthur Culver. Aged about 44. Slim. Lively. 
Well dressed, with a certain very slight, elegant 
negligence. It is to be remembered that a man 
of 44 in these days is young. Arthur Culver's 
general style must be decidedly young, but his hair 
may show that he has a daughter of 22. In spite 
of his abounding humour, when it comes to the 
point he can be very firm indeed. As a rule great 
freedom characterises the relations between him 
and his children. He is a very successful man of 
business, and a considerable person in the official 
world. Always in love, and politely quarrelling, 
with his wife. 

Mrs. Culver. Aged about 42. I want this 
woman to be slim. It is essential that she should 
wear really good frocks and wear them properly. 
Her face may, and should, show her age, but her 
figure and deportment (though the latter is dig- 
nified) must not. She is a bit of a flirt. She 
is delightful, and she likes to be admired. She 



viii NOTES ON THE CHARACTERS 

likes to charm. She is always fully conscious of 
the privileges and advantages of being a woman. 
With all this, she lives for her husband and fam- 
ily. Yet she is usually determined to get her 
own way, and nearly always, with the help of her 
cleverness and attractiveness and unscrupulous- 
ness, she does get it. She is somewhat conven- 
tional, but at the same time fairly tolerant. A 
powerful individuality, intensely alive. Always 
in love with her husband and pitting herself 
against him. 

HiLDEGARDE CuLVER. About S2. Her intelli- 
gence outruns her experience. Thus she writes 
brilliant articles and yet is often like a quite 
young girl in front of her mother. When she is 
at ease in conversation she can hold her own with 
any one. When she is not at ease, she betrays 
her inexperience and her ingenuousness. She is 
a modern girl who has been highly educated and 
very carefully brought up. She is intimidated by 
her mother in Acts I and II, but in Act III she 
practises for a time some of her mother's art. 
She has the charm of youth, without in the least 
pretending to rival her mother's highly accom- 
plished femininity. She is not particularly in- 
terested in dress, but not untidy. 

John Culver. Aged 17. Physically well ad- 
vanced for his years. Faint trace of a mous- 
tache. A really important personage at school, 
he tries to play the adult at home, and only just 



NOTES ON THE CHARACTERS ix 

fails. Inclinations toward dandyism. Of course 
his movements are a little brusque and clumsy. 

Tranto. Aged about 25. Accustomed to 
great wealth. The lightest of all the characters. 
An imperturbable liar when it suits him to be so, 
and indeed imperturbable at all moments except 
once in the third act, with a rather distinguished 
brain and a very kindly disposition. Airy; full 
of fantasy, and with a humorous quality second 
only to that of Mr. Culver. 

Miss Starkey. Aged about 30. An austere, 
capable virgin. Absorbed in her career of sec- 
retary. 

Sampson Straight. Aged over 30. Stoutish, 
with the smooth, reddish, brazen face of an ad- 
venturer; deliberate movements and a very quiet 
voice. In appearance he resembles a refined 
bookr-iaker. Rather too careful and prim in his 
good manners. No sense of humour. Takes 
everything au pied de la lettre. 

Parlourmaid. Aged about 45. Consciously 
alert and bright. Biggish. Wears grey instead 
of black. It is to be remembered that almost all 
the conventional parlourmaids have taken to 
other walks of life under the temptations of war. 



THE TITLE 



ACT I 

Hildegarde is sitting at a desk, writing. John^ 
in a lounging attitude, is reading a news- 
paper. 

Enter Tranto, back 

Tranto. Good evening. 

Hildegarde [turning slightly in her seat and 
giving him her left handy the right still holding 
a pen']. Good evening. Excuse me one mo^ 
ment. 

Tranto. All right about my dining here to- 
night? \_Hildegarde nods.] Larder equal to the 
strain ? 

Hildegarde. Macaroni. 

Tranto. Splendid. 

Hildegarde. Beefsteak. 

Tranto. Great heavens ! [^Imitates sketchily 
the motions of cutting up a piece of steak. Shak- 
ing hands with John, who has risen.] Well, John. 
How are things? Don't let me disturb you. 
Have a cigarette? 

II 



12 THE TITLE 

John [flattered^. Thanks. [As they light 
cigarettes. ~\ You're the first person here that's 
treated me like a human being. 

Tranto. Oh! 

John. Yes. Thej all treat me as if I was a 
schoolboy home for the hols. 

Tranto. But you are, aren't you? 

John. In a way, of course. But — well, don't 
you see what I mean? 

Tranto [sympathetically^. You mean that a 
schoolboy home for the hols isn't necessarily 
something escaped out of the Zoo. 

John [marming^. That's it. 

Tranto. In fact, what you mean is you're 
really an individual very like the rest of us, sub- 
ject, if I may say so, to the common desires, 
weaknesses and prejudices of humanity — and not 
a damned freak. 

John \hrightly']. That's rather good, that is. 
If it's a question of the Zoo, what I say is — what 
price home? Now, homes are extraordinary if 
you like — I don't know whether you've ever no- 
ticed it. School, — you can understand school. 
You know where you are at school. But home — ! 
Strange things happen here while I'm away. 

Tranto. Yes? 

John. It was while I was away they appointed 
Dad a controller. When I heard — I laughed. 
Dad a controller! Why, he can't even control 
mother. 



ACT I 13 

Hildegarde [without looking round']. Oh, yes 
he can. 

John [pretending to start hack]. Stay me 
with flagons! [Resuming to Tranto.] And you're 
something new here since the summer hohdays. 

Tranto, I never looked at myself in that 
light. But I suppose I am rather new here. 

John. Not quite new. But you've made a lot 
of progress during the last term. 

Tranto. That's comforting. 

John. You understand what I mean. You 
were rather stiff and prim in August — now you 
aren't a bit. 

Tranto. Just so. Well, I won't ask you what 
you think of me, John, — you might tell me — but 
what do you think of my newspaper? 

John. The Echo? I don't know what to 
think. You see, we don't read newspapers much 
at school. Some of the masters do. And a few 
chaps in the Fifth — swank, of course. But 
speaking generally we don't. Prefects don't. No 
time. 

Tranto. How strange! Aren't you interested 
in the war.'^ 

John. Interested in the war! Would you 
mind if I spoke plainly.'^ 

Tranto. I should love it. 

John. Each time I come home I wonder more 
and more whether you people in London have got 
the slightest notion what war really is. Fact! 



14 THE TITLE 

At school, it's just because we are interested in 
the war that we've no time for newspapers. 

Tranto. How's that? 

John, How's that? Well, munition work- 
shops — with government inspectors tumbling all 
over us about once a week. O.T.C. work. Field 
days. Cramming fellows for Sandhurst. Not to 
mention female masters. "Mistresses," I ought 
to say perhaps. All these things take time. 

Tranto. I never thought of that. 

John, No. People don't. However, I've de- 
cided to read newspapers in future — it'll be part 
of my scheme. That's why I was reading The 
Echo. Now I should like to ask you something 
about this paper of yours. 

Tranto. Yes? 

John. Why do you let Hilda write those ar- 
ticles for you about food economy stunts in the 
household ? 

Tranto. Well {^hesitatmg~\. 

John. Now I look at things practically. 
When Hilda'd spent all her dress allowance and 
got into debt besides, about a year and a half 
ago, she suddenly remembered she wasn't doing 
much to help the war, and so she went into the 
Food Ministry as a typist at 35/- a week. Next 
she learnt typing. Then she became an author- 
ity on everything. And now she's concocting 
these food articles for you. Believe me, the girl 
knows nothing whatever about cookery. She 



ACT I 15 

couldn't fry a sausage for nuts. Once the mater 
insisted on her doing the housekeeping — in the 
hohdays, too ! Stay me with flagons ! 

Hildegarde [without looking round^. Stay 
you with chocolates, you mean, Johnnie, dear. 

John. There you are ! Her thoughts fly in- 
stantly to chocolates — and in the fourth year of 
the greatest war that the world 

Hildegarde. Et cetera, et cetera. 

Tranto. Then do I gather that you don't en- 
tirely approve of your sister's articles? 

John. Tripe,. I think. My fag could write 
better. I'll tell you what I do approve of. I 
approve of that article to-day by that chap 
Sampson Straight about titles and the shameful 
traffic in honours and the rot of the hereditary 
principle and all that sort of thing. 

Tranto. I'm glad. Delivers the goods, 
doesn't he, Mr. Sampson Straight.'' 

John. Well, / think so. Who is he.? 

Tranto. One of my discoveries, John. He 
sent me in an article about — let me see, when was 
it? — about eight months ago. I at once per- 
ceived that in Mr. Sampson Straight I had got 
on to a bit of all right. And I was not mistaken. 
He has given London beans pretty nearly regu- 
larly once a week ever since. 

John. He must have given the War Cabi- 
net neuralgia this afternoon, anyhow. I should 
like to meet him. 



16 THE TITLE 

Tranto. I'm afraid that's impossible? 

John, Is it? Why? 

Tranto. Well, I haven't met him myself yet. 
He lives at a quiet country place in Cornwall. 
Hermit, I believe. Hates any kind of publicity. 
Absolutely refuses to be photographed. 

John. Photographed! I should think not! 
But couldn't you get him to come and lecture at 
school? We have frightful swells, you know. 

Tranto, I expect you do. But he wouldn't 
come. 

John, I wish he would. We had a debate the 
other Saturday night on — Should the hereditary 
principle be abolished? 

Tranto. And did you abolish it? 

John. Did we abolish it? I should say we 
did. Eighty-five to twenty-one. Some debate, 
believe Tnel 

HUdegarde [looking round']. Yes, but didn't 
you tell us once that in your Debating Society 
the speakers always tossed for sides beforehand? 

John [shrugging hh shoulders. More con- 
fldentiallt/ to Tranto^. As I was saying, I'm 
going to read the papers in future, as part of my 
scheme. And d'you know what the scheme is? 
[Impressivelt/.'] I've decided to take up a politi- 
cal career. 

Tranto, Good ! 

John, Yes, it was during that hereditary 
principle debate that I decided. It came over me 



ACT I 17 

all of a sudden while I was on the last lap of my 
speech and the fellows were cheering. And so I 
want to understand first of all the newspaper 
situation in London. There are one or two things 
about it I donH understand. 

Tranto, Not more? I can explain the news- 
paper situation to you in ten words. You know 
I've got a lot of uncles. I daresay I've got more 
uncles than anybody else in "Who's Who." Well, 
I own The Echo, — inherited it from my father. 
My uncles own all the rest of the press — \_airily^ 
with a few trifling exceptions. That's the Lon- 
don newspaper situation. Quite simple, isn't it? 

John, But of course The Echo is up against 
all your uncles' papers — at least it seems so. 

Tranto. Absolutely up against them. Tooth 
and nail. Daggers drawn. No quarter. Death 
or victory. 

John, But do you and your uncles speak to 
each other? 

Tranto. Best of friends. 

John, But aren't two of your uncles lords? 

Tranto. Yes. Uncle Joe was made an earl 
not long since — you may have heard of the fuss 
about it. Uncle Sam's only a miserable baron 
yet. And Uncle Cuthbert is that paltry insect — 
a baronet. 

John. What did they get their titles for,? 

Tranto. Ask me another. 

John. Of course I don't want to be personal, 



18 THE TITLE 

but how did they get them? Did they — er — buy 
them ? 

Tranto. Don't know. 

John. Haven't you ever asked them? 

Tranto, Well, John, you've got relatives your- 
self, and you probably know there are some things 
that even the most affectionate relatives donH ask 
each other. 

Hildegarde {^rising from the desk and looking 
at John^s feet']. Yes, indeed! This very morn- 
ing I unwisely asked Johnnie whether his socks 
ever talked. Altercation followed. "Some de- 
bate, believe meT 

John [rising; with scornful tranquillity']. I'd 
better get ready for dinner. Besides, you two 
would doubtless like to be alone together for a 
few precious moments. 

Hildegarde [sharply and self-consciously]. 
What do you mean? 

John [lightly]. Nothing. I thought editor 
and contributor 

Hildegarde. Oh! I see. 

John [stopping at door, and turning round]. 
Do you mean to say your uncles won't be fright- 
fully angry at Mr. Sampson Straight's articles? 
Why, dash it, when he's talking about traffic in 
honours, if he doesn't mean them who does he 
mean ? 

Tranto. My dear friend, stufF like that's 



ACT I 19 

meat and drink to my uncles. They put it down 
like chocolates. 

John, Well, my deliberate opinion is — it's a 
jolly strange world. \_Exit quickly, hack.'] 

Tranto [looking at Hildegarde~\ . So it is. 
Philosopher, John! Questions rather pointed 
perhaps ; but results in the discovery of new 
truths. By the way, have I come too early? 

Hildegarde [archly']. How could you.^^ But 
father's controlling the country half an hour 
more than usual this evening, and I expect 
mamma was so angry about it she forgot to tele- 
phone you that dinner's moved accordingly. 
[With piquancy and humour.] I was rather 
surprised to hear when I got home from my Min- 
istry that you'd sent word you'd like to dine to- 
night. 

Tranto. Were you? Why? 

Hildegarde. Because last week when mamma 
asked you for to-night, you said you had another 
engagement. 

Tram^to. Oh ! I'd forgotten I'd told her that. 
Still, I really had another engagement. 

Hildegarde. The Countess of Blackfriars — 
you said. 

Tranto. Yes. Auntie Joe's. I've just sent 
her a telephone message to say I'm ill and con- 
fined to the house. 

Hildegarde. Which house? 

Tranto. 1 didn't specify any particular house. 



20 THE TITLE 

Hildegarde. And are you ill? 

Tranto, I am not . . . To get back to the 
realm of fact, when I read Sampson Straight's ar- 
ticle about the degradation of honours this after- 
noon 

Hildegarde, Didn't you read it before you 
published it? 

Tranto. No. I had to rush off and confront 
the Medical Board at 9 a. m. I felt certain the 
article would be all right. 

Hildegarde. And it wasn't all right. 

Tranto \_positi'vel2/'\. Perfectly all right. 

Hildegarde. You don't seem quite sure. Are 
we still in the realm of fact, or are we slipping 
over the frontier ? 

Tranto. The article was perfectly all right. 
It rattled off from beginning to end like a ma- 
chine-gun, and must have caused enormous casual- 
ties. Only I thought Auntie Joe might be one of 
the casualties. I thought it might put her out 
of action as a hostess for a week or so. You 
see, for me to publish such an onslaught on new 
titles in the afternoon, and then attempt to dine 
with the latest countess the same night — and she 
my own aunt — well it might be regarded as a bit — 
thick. So I'm confined to the house — this house 
as it happens. 

Hildegarde. But you told John your people 
would take the article like meat and drink. 

Tranto. What if I did ? John can't expect to 



ACT I ai 

discover the whole truth about everything at one 
go. He's found out it's a jolly strange world. 
That ought to satisfy him for to-day. Besides, 
he only asked me about my uncles. He said noth- 
ing about my uncles' wives. You know what 
women are — I mean wives. 

Hildegarde. Oh, I do ! Mother is a marvellous 
specimen. 

Tranto. I haven't told you the worst. 

Hildegarde. I hope no man ever will. 

Tranto. The worst is this. Auntie Joe ac- 
tually thinks Fm Sampson Straight. 

Hildegarde. She doesn't ! 

Tranto. She does. She has an infinite capac- 
ity for belief. The psychology of the thing is 
as follows. My governor died a comparatively 
poor man. A couple of hundred thousand pounds, 
more or less. Whereas Uncle Joe is worth five 
millions, — and Uncle Joe was going to adopt me, 
when Auntie Joe butted in and married him. She 
used to arrange the flowers for his first wife. Then 
she arranged his flowers. Then she became a 
flower herself and he had to gather her. Then she 
had twins, and my chances of inheriting that five 
millions — \^He imitates the noise of a slight ex- 
plosion.^ — short-circuited! Well, I didn't care a 
volt — not a volt ! I've got lots of uncles left who 
are quite capable of adopting me. But I didn't 
really want to be adopted at all. To adopt me 
was only part of Uncle Joe's political game. It 



22 THE TITLE 

was my Echo that he was after adopting. But 
I'd sooner run my Echo on my own than inherit 
Uncle Joe's controlHng share in twenty-five daily 
papers, seventy-one weekly papers, six monthly 
magazines, and three independent advertising 
agencies. I know I'm a poor man, but I'm 
quite ready to go on facing the world bravely 
with my modest capital of a couple of hundred 
thousand pounds. Only Auntie Joe can't under- 
stand that. She's absolutely convinced that I 
have a terrific grudge against her and her twins, 
and that in order to gratify that grudge I myself 
personally write articles against all her most 
sacred ideals under the pseudonym of Sampson 
Straight. I've pointed out to her that I'm a news- 
paper proprietor and no newspaper proprietor 
ever could write. No use ! She won't listen. 

Hildegarde, Then she thinks you're a liar. 

Tranto. Oh, not at all. Only a journalist. 
But you perceive the widening rift in the family 
lute. \_A silence.'] Pardon this glimpse into the 
secret history of the week. 

Hildegarde [^formidably]. Mr. Tranto, you 
and I are sitting on the edge of a volcano. 

Tranto. We are. I like it. Thrilling, and yet 
so warm and cosy. 

Hildegarde. I used to like it once. But I 
don't think I like it any more. 

Tranto. Now please don't let Auntie Joe 
worry you. She's my cross, not yours. 



ACT I 23 

Hilde garde. Yes. But considered as a cross, 
your Auntie Joe is nothing to my brother John, 
who quite justly calls his sister's cookery stuff 
"tripe." It was a most ingenious camouflage of 
yours to have me pretending to be the author of 
that food economy "tripe," so as to cover my 
writing quite different articles for The Echo and 
your coming here to see me so often. Most in- 
genious. Worthy of a newspaper proprietor. 
But why should I be saddled with "tripe" that 
isn't mine ? 

Tranto. Why, indeed! Then you think we 
ought to encourage the volcano with a lighted 
match — and run? 

HUdegarde. I'm ready if you are. 

Tranto. Oh ! I'm ready. Secrecy was a great 
stunt at first. Letting out the secret will be an 
even greater stunt now. It'll make the finest news- 
paper story since the fearful fall of the last Cabi- 
net. Sampson Straight — equals Miss Hildegarde 
Culver, the twenty-one-year-old daughter of the 
Controller of Accounts ! Typist in the Food De- 
partment, by day ! Journalistic genius by night ! 
The terror of Ministers ! Read by all London ! 
Raised the circulation of The Echo two hundred 
per cent ! Phenomenon unique in the annals of 
Fleet Street ! [In a different tone, notic'mg HUde- 
garde's jaceJ] Crude headlines, I admit, but that's 
what Uncle Joe has brought us to. We have to 
compete with Uncle Joe. . . . 



m THE TITLE 

HUdegarde. Of course I shall have to leave 
home. 

Tranto, Leave home ! 

Hildegarde. Yes, and live by myself in rooms. 

Tranto. But why? 

Hildegarde. I couldn't possibly stay here. 
Think how it would compromise father with the 
War Cabinet if I did. It might ruin him. And 
as accounts are everything in modem warfare, it 
might lose the war. But that's nothing — it's 
mamma I'm thinking of. Do you forget that 
Sampson Straight, being a young woman of ad- 
vanced ideas, has written about everything, every- 
thing, — yes, and several other subjects besides? 
For instance, here's the article I was revising when 
you came in. \^Shows the title page to Tranto.^ 

Tranto. Splendid! You're the most courage- 
ous creature I ever met. 

Hildegarde. Possibly. But not courageous 
enough to offer to kiss mamma when I went to bed 
on the night that that [indicating the article^ had 
appeared in print under my own name. You don't 
know mamma. 

Tranto. But dash it! You could eat your 
mother ! 

Hildegarde. — Pardon me. The contrary is the 
fact. Mamma could eat me. 

Tranto. But you're the illustrious Sampson 
Straight. There's more intelligence in your little 



4CT I 25 

finger than there is in your mother's whole body. 
See how you write. 

Hildegarde, Write ! I only began to write as 
a relief from mamma. I escaped secretly into ar- 
ticles like escaping into an underground passage. 
But as for facing mamma in the open ! . . . Even 
father scarcely ever does that; and when he does 
we hold our breath and the cook turns teetotal. 
It wouldn't be the slightest use me trying to ex- 
plain the situation logically to mamma. She 
wouldn't understand. She's far too clever to 
understand anything she doesn't like. Perhaps 
that's the secret of her power. No, if the truth 
about Sampson Straight is to come out I must 
leave home, — quietly but firmly leave home. And 
why not? I can keep myself in splendour on 
Sampson's earnings. And the break is bound to 
come sooner or later. I admit I didn't begin very 
seriously, but reading my own articles has gradu- 
ally made me serious. I feel I have a cause. A 
cause may be inconvenient, but it's magnificent. 
It's like champagne or high heels, and one must 
be prepared to suffer it. 

Tranto. Cause be hanged ! Suffer be hanged ! 
High heels be hanged! Champagne — ^stops^. 
Miss Culver, if a disclosure means your leaving 
home I won't agree to any disclosure whatever. I 
will — not — agree. We'll sit tight on the volcano. 

Hildegarde. But why won't you agree? 

Tranto [excited^. Why won't I agree! Why 



26 THE TITLE 

won't I agree ! Because I don't want jou to leave 
home. I know you're a born genius, a marvel, a 
miracle, a prodigy, an incredible orchid, the most 
brilliant journalist in London. I'm fully aware of 
all that. But I do not and will not see you as a 
literary bachelor living with a cause and holding 
receptions of serious people in chambers furnished 
by Roger Fry. I like to think of you at home, 
here, in this charming atmosphere, amid the de- 
lightful vicissitudes of family existence, and — well, 
I like to think of you as a woman. 

Hildegarde {^calmly and teasingly.^ Mr. Tran- 
to, we are forgetting one thing. 

Tranto. What's that.? 

Hildegarde. You're an editor and I'm a con- 
tributor whom you've never met. 

Enter Mrs, Culver, L 

Mrs. Culver. Mr. Tranto, how are you.'' 
\_Shakmg hands.~\ I'm delighted to see you. So 
sorry I didn't warn you we dine half an hour later 
— thanks to the scandalous way the Government 
slave-drives my poor husband. Please do excuse 
me. \_She sits.^ 

Tranto. On the contrary, it's I who should 
ask to be excused, — proposing myself like this at 
the last moment. 

Mrs. Culver. It was very nice of you to think 
of us. Come and sit down here. [^Indicatmg a 



ACT I m 

'place by her side on the sofa,'\ Now in my poor 
addled brain I had an idea you were engaged for 
to-night at your aunt's, Lady Blackfriars. 

Tranto \^sittmg~\. Mrs. Culver, you forget 
nothing. I wcls engaged for Auntie Joe's, but 
she's ill and she's put me off. 

Mrs. Culver, Dear me ! How very sudden ! 

Tranto, Sudden ? 

Mrs, Culver. I met Lady Blackfriars at tea 
late this afternoon and it struck me how well she 
was looking. 

Tranto. Yes, she always looks particularly 
well just before she's going to be ill. She's very 
brave, very brave. 

Mrs, Culver. D'you mean in having twins? It 
was more than brave of her ; it was beautiful — both 
boys, too. 

Hildegarde [vrmocently^, Budgetting for a 
long war. 

Mrs. Culver [affectionately']. My dear girl! 
Come here. Darling, you haven't changed. Ex- 
cuse me, Mr. Tranto. 

Hildegarde \^ap pro aching], I've been so busy. 
And I thought nobody was coming. 

Mrs. Culver, Is your father nobody.'* {^Strok- 
ing and patting Hildegarde's dress into order.] 
What have you been so busy on ? 

Hildegarde. Article for The Echo, [Tranto ^ 
who has been holding the MS., indicates it.] 

Mrs. Culver. I do wish you would let me see 



^8 THE TITLE 

those cookery articles of yours before they're !J 
printed. 

Tranto ^putting MS. m his pocket^. I'm 
afraid that's quite against the rules. You see, in 
Fleet Street 

Mrs. Ctdvier [very pleasantly^ . As you please. 
I don't pretend to be intellectual. But I confess 
I'm just a wee bit disappointed in Hildegarde's 
cookery articles. I'm a great believer in good 
cookery. I put it next to the Christian religion — 
and far in front of mere cleanliness. I've just been 
trying to read Professor Metchinkoff's wonderful 
book on "The Nature of Man." It only confirms 
me in my lifelong belief that until the nature of 
man is completely altered good cooking is the chief 
thing that women ought to understand. Now I 
taught Hildegarde some cookery myself. She was 
not what I should call a brilliant pupil, but she 
did grasp the great eternal principles. And yet I 
find her writing [with charm and benevolence^ — 
stuff like her last article, — "The Everlasting 
Boiled Potato," I think she called it. Hildegarde, 
it was really very naughty of you to say what you 
said in that article. ^Drawing down Hildegarde's 
head and kissing her.'] 

Tranto. Now why, Mrs. Culver? I thought it 
was so clever. 

Mrs. Ctdver. It may be clever to advocate 
fried potatoes and chip potatoes and saute po- 
tatoes as a change from the everlasting boiled. I 



ACT I 29 

daresay it's what you call journalism. But how 
can you fry potatoes without fat? 

Tranto. Ah! How? 

Mrs. Culver, And where are you to obtain fat? 
/ can't obtain fat. I stand in queues for hours 
because my servants won't — it's the latest form of 
democracy — but / can't obtain fat. I think the 
nearest fat is at Stratford-on-Avon. 

Tranto. Stand in queues ! Mrs. Culver, you 
make me feel very guilty, plunging in at a mo- 
ment's notice and demanding a whole dinner in a 
fatless world. I shall eat nothing but dry bread. 

Mrs. Culver. We never serve bread now at 
lunch or dinner unless it's specially asked for. 
But if soup, macaroni, eggs, and jelly will keep 
you alive till breakfast 

Hildegarde. But there's beefsteak, mamma — 
I've told Mr. Tranto. 

Mrs. Culver. Only a little, and that's for your 
father. Beefsteak's the one thing that keeps off 
his neuralgia, Mr. Tranto [with apologetic per- 
suasiveness^. I'm sure you'll understand. 

Tranto. Dear lady, I've never had neuralgia 
in my life. Macaroni, eggs, and jelly are my 
dream. I've always wanted to feel like an invalid. 

Mrs. Culver. And how did you get on with 
your Medical Board this morning? 

Tranto. How marvellous of you to remember 
that I had a Medical Board this morning! I be- 
lieve I've found out your secret, Mrs. Tranto — 



30 THE TITLE 

you're undergoing a course of Pelman with those 
sixty generals and forty admirals. Well, the 
Medical Board have given me a new complaint. 
You'll be sorry to hear that I'm deformed. 

Mrs. Culver, Not deformed! 

Tranto. Yes. It appears I'm flat-footed. 
[Extendmg his leg.} Have I ever told you that I 
had a dashing military career extending over four 
months, three of which I spent in hospital for a 
disease I hadn't got. Then I was discharged as 
unfit. After a year they raked me in again. Since 
then I've been boarded five times, and on the un- 
impeachable authority of various R.A.M.C. 
Colonels I've been afflicted with valvular disease of 
the heart, incipient tuberculosis, rickets, varicose 
veins, diabetes — practically everything except 
spotted fever and leprosy. And now flat feet are 
added to all the rest. Even the Russian collapse 
and the transfer of the entire German army to 
the Western Front hasn't raised me higher than 
C.3. 

Mrs, Culver. How annoying for you! You 
might have risen to be a Captain by this time. 

HUdegarde [reflectively/']. No doubt, in a home 
unit. But if he'd gone to the Front he would still 
have been a second lieutenant. 

Mrs. Culver. My dear! 

Tranto. Whereas in fact I'm still one of those 
able-bodied young shirkers in mufti that patriotic 



ACT I 31 

old gentlemen in clubs are always writing to my 
uncles' papers about. 

Mrs, Culver, Please ! Please ! [A slight pause; 
pulling herself together; cheerfully. '\ Let me see, 
you were going in for Siege Artillery, weren't 
you? 

Tranto. Me! Siege Artillery. My original 
ambition was trench mortars — not so noisy. 

Mrs. Culver [simply']. Oh! Then it must have 
been somebody else who was talking to me about 
Siege Artillery. I understand it's very scientific 
— all angles and degrees and wind-pressures and 
things. John will soon be eighteen and his father 
and I want him to be feally useful in the Army. 
We won't want him to be thrown away. He has 
brains, and so we are thinking of Siege Artillery 
for him. [^During this speech John has entered, 
in evemng dress.^ 

John, Are you on Siege again, mater .'^ The 
mater's keen on Siege because she's heard some- 
where it's the safest thing there is. 

Mrs. Culver. And if it does happen to be the 
safest — what then.'' 

Tranto. I suppose you're all for the Flying 
Corps yourself, John? 

John Izvith condescension^. Not specially. 
Since one of the old boys came and did looping the 
loop stunts over the school the whole Fifth has 
gone mad on the R.F.C. Most fellows are just 
like sheep. Somebody in the Sixth has to be orig- 



32 THE TITLE 

inal. I want to fight as much as any chap with 
wings across his chest, but I've got my private 
career to think of, too. If you ask me, the mater's 
had a brain-wave for once. 

Enter Mr, Culver, hack 

[He stands a moment at the door, surveying the 
scene, Mrs, Culver springs up, and Tranto also 
rises, moving towards the door.l 

Mrs. Culver, Arthur, have you come? 

Culver [advancing a little']. Apparently. 
Hello, Tranto, glad to see you. I wanted to. 
[Shakes hands with Tranto.'] 

Mrs, Culver. What's the matter, Arthur? 

Culver. Everything. 

Mrs, Culver [alarmed, hut carefully coaxi/ng]. 
Why are you wearing your velvet coat? [To 
Tranto.] He always puts on his velvet coat in- 
stead of dressing when something's gone wrong. 
[To Mr. Culver.] Have you got neuralegia again? 

Culver, I don't think so. 

Mrs, Culver. But surely you must know ! You 
look terribly pale. 

Culver, The effect of the velvet coat, my dear 
— nicely calculated in advance. 

Mrs, Culver [darting at him, holding him hy 
the shoulders, and then kissing him violently. 
With an intonation of affectionate protest]. 
Darling ! 

John. Oh ! I say, mater, look here I 

Mrs, Culver [to Culver, still holding him]. I'm 



ACT I 33 

very annoyed with you. It's perfectly absurd the 
way you work. \_To Trcmto.~\ Do you know he 
was at the office all day Christmas Day and all 
day Boxing Day? [To Cidver,^ You really must 
take a holiday. 

Cuiaer. But what about the war, darling? 
Mrs, Culver [loosing hirri]. Oh! You're al- 
ways making the war an excuse. I know what I 

shall do. I shall just go 

Culver. Yes, darling, just go and suggest a 
short armistice to the Germans while you take me 
to Brighton for a week's fondling. 

Mrs, Culver, I shall just speak to Miss Star- 
1 key. Strange that the wife, in order to influence 
' the husband, should have to appeal to [disdam- 

fully] the lady-secretary ! But so it is. 

', Culver, Hermione, I must beg you not to inter- 

fere between Miss Starkey and me. Interference 

i will upset Miss Starkey, and I cannot stand her 

\ being upset. I depend on her absolutely. First, 

Miss Starkey is the rock upon which my official 

; existence is built. She is a serious and conscien- 

, tious rock. She is hard and expects me to be hard. 

' Secondly, Miss Starkey is the cushion between me 

i and the world. She knows my tender spots, and 

] protects them. Thirdly, Miss Starkey is my rod 

— and I kiss it. 

Mrs, Culver. Arthur ! . . . [Tries to he agree- 
able.'] But I really am vexed. 
Culver, Well, I'm only hungry. 



34. THE TITLE 



Enter Parlourmaid 



Parlourmaid. Cook's compliments, madam, 
and dinner will be twenty minutes late. [Exit.'] 
A shocked silence 

Culver \_mth an exhausted sigh^. And yet I 
gave that cook one of my most captivating smiles 
this morning. 

Mrs, Culver [settling Mr. Culver into a chair']. 
She's done it simply because I told her to-night 
that rationing is definitely coming in. Her reply 
was that the kitchen would never stand it, what- 
ever the Government said. She was quite upset — 
and so she's gone and done something to the din- 
ner. 

Culver. Surely rather illogical of her, isn't it? 
Or have I missed a link in the chain of reasoning? 

Mrs. Culver. I shall give her notice — after 
dinner. 

John Couldn't you leave it till after the holi- 
days, mother? 

Hildegarde. And where shall you find another 
cook, mamma? 

Mrs. Culver. The first thing is to get rid of 
the present one. Then we shall see. 

Culver. My dear, you talk as if she was a 
prime minister. Still, it might be a good plan to 
sack all the servants before rationing comes in, 
and engage deaf mutes. 

Mrs. Culver Deaf-mutes ! 



ACT I 85 

Cul'aer. Deaf-mutes. Then they would be wor- 
ried by the continual groaning of mi/ hunger, and 
I shouldn't hear any complaints about theirs. 

Mrs, Culver [to Hildegarde^. My pet, you've 
time to change now. Do run and change. You're 
so sombre. 

HUdegarde. I can't do it in twenty minutes. 

Mrs. Culver. Then put a bright shawl on — 
for papa's sake. 

HUdegarde. I haven't got a bright shawl. 

Mrs. Culver. Then take mine. The one with 
the pink beads on it. It's in my wardrobe — right- 
hand side. 

John. That means it'll be on the left-hand 
side. 

[Exit HUdegarde, hack, with a look at 
Tranto, who opens the door for her.] 

Mrs. Culver [with sweet apprehensiveness']. 
Now, Arthur, I'm afraid after all you have some- 
thing on your mind. 

Culver. I've got nothing on my stomach, any- 
way. [Bracing himself.] Yes, darling, it's true. 
I have got something on my mind. Within the last 
hour I've had a fearful shock 

Mrs. Culver. I knew it ! 

Cvlver. And I need sustaining. I hadn't 
meant to say anything until after dinner, but in 
view of cook's drastic alterations in the time table 
I may as well tell you [looking roumd] at once. 



36 THE TITLE 

Mrs. Culver. It's something about the Gov- 
ernment again. 

Cvlver. The Government has been in a very 
serious situation. 

Mrs. Cvlver {^alarTned^. You mean they're 
going to ask you to resign? 

Culver. I wish they would! 

Mrs. Culver. Arthur! Do please remember 
the country is at war. 

Culver. Is it? So it is. You see, my pet, I 
remember such lots of things. I remember that 
my brainy partner is counting khaki trousers in 
the Army clothing department. I remember that 
my other partner ought to be in a lunatic asylum 
but isn't. I remember that my business is going 
to the dogs at a muzzle velocity of about five thou- 
sand feet a second. I remember that from mere 
snobbishness I work for the Government without 
a penny of salary, and that my sole reward is to 
be insulted and libelled by high-brow novelists who 
write for the press. Therefore, you ought not to 
be startled if I secretly yearn to resign. However, 
I shall not be asked to resign. I said that the 
Government had been in a very serious situation. 
It was. But it will soon recover. 

Mrs. Culver. How soon? 

Culver. On New Year's Day. 

John. Then what's the fearful shock, dad? 

Mrs. Culver. Yes. Have you heard anything 
special? 



ACT I 37 

Culver. No. But I've seen something special. 
I saw it less than an hour ago. It was shown to 
me without the slightest warning, and I admit it 
shook me. You can perceive for yourselves that 
it shook me. 

Mrs. Culver. But what.? 

Culver. The New Year's Honours List — or 
rather a few choice selections from the more sensa- 
tional parts of it. 

Enter HUdegarde 

Mrs. Culver. Arthur, what do you mean? \_To 
Hildegarde, in despair. 1^ My chick, your father 
grows more and more puzzling every day! How 
well that shawls suits you ! You look quite a dif- 
ferent girl. But you've — [Arranges the shawl 
on Hildegarde.^ I really don't know what your 
father has got on his mind ! I really don't ! 

John [impatient of this feminine mamfestor- 
tion^ . Oh, dad, go on. Go on ! I want to get to 
the bottom of this titles business. I'm hanged if 
I can understand it. What strikes me as an un- 
prejudiced observer is that titles are supposed to 
be such a terrific honour, and yet the people who 
deal them out scarcely ever keep any for them- 
selves. Look at Mr. Gladstone, for instance. He 
must have made about forty earls and seven thou- 
sand baronets in his time. Now if I was a Prime 
Minister and I believed in titles — which I jolly 



38 THE TITLE 

well don't — I should make myself a duke right off ; 
and I should have several marquises and viscounts 
round me in the Cabinet like a sort of bodyguard, 
and my private secretaries would have to be 
knights. There'd be some logic in that arrange- 
ment, anyhow. 

Culver. In view of your political career, John, 
will you mind if I give you a brief lesson on ele- 
mentary politics — though you are on your holi- 
days ? 

John \^easily\. I'm game. 

Cvlver. What is the first duty of modern Gov- 
ernments ? 

John. To govern. 

Culver. My innocent boy. I thought better 
of you. I know that you look on the venerable 
Mr. Tranto as a back number and I suspect that 
Mr. Tranto in his turn regards me as prehistoric ; 
and yet you are so behind the times as to imagine 
that the first duty of modern Governments is to 
govern ! My dear Rip van Winkle, wake up. The 
first duty of a Government is to live. It has no 
right to be a Government at all unless it is con- 
vinced that if it fell the country would go to ever- 
lasting smash. Hence its first duty is to survive. 
In, order to survive it must do three things — pla- 
cate certain interests, influence votes, and obtain 
secret funds. All these three things can be accom- 
plished by the ingenious institution of Honours. 
Only the simple-minded believe that honours are 



ACT I 39 

given to honour. Honours are given to save the 
life of the Government. Hence the Honours List. 
Examine the Honours List and you can instantly 
tell how the Government feels in its inside. When 
the Honours List is full of rascals, millionaires, 
and — er — chumps, you may be quite sure that the 
Government is dangerously ill. 

Tranto. But that amounts to what we've been 
saying in The Echo to-day. 

Culver. Yes, I've read The Echo. 

John. I thought you never had a free moment 
at the office — always rushed to death — at least 
that's the mater's theory. 

Culver. I've read The Echo, and my one sur- 
prise is that you're here to-night, Tranto. 

Tranto. Why? 

Culver. I quite thought you'd have been 
shoved into the Tower under the Defence of the 
Realm Act. Or Sampson Straight, anyway. 
IHildegarde starts.^ Your contributor has com- 
mitted the unpardonable sin of hitting the nail on 
the head. He might almost have seen an advance 
copy of the Honours List. 

Tranto. He hadn't. Nor had I. Who's in 
it.? 

Culver. You might ask who isn't in it. [Tak- 
ing a paper from his pocket. ~\ Well, Gentletie's 
in it. He gets a knighthood. 

Tranto. Never heard of him. Who is he.? 

Hildegarde. Oh, yes, you've heard of him. 



40 THE TITLE 

[John glances at her severely,'] He's M.P. for 
some earthly paradise or other in the South Rid- 
ing. 

Tranto. Oh ! 

Cvlver. Perhaps I might read you something 
written by my private secretary — ^he's one of these 
literary wags. You see there's been a demand 
that the Government should state clearly, in every 
case of an Honour, exactly what services the Hon- 
our is given for. This [taking 'paper from his 
pocket'] is supposed to be the stuff sent round to 
the press by the Press Bureau. [Reads.'] "Mr. 
Gentletie has gradually made a solid reputation 
for himself as the dullest man in the House of 
Commons. Whenever he rises to his feet the House 
empties as if by magic. In cases of inconvenience, 
when the Government wishes abruptly to close a 
debate by counting out the House, it has in- 
variably put up Mr. Gentletie to speak. The de- 
vice has never been known to fail. Nobody can 
doubt that Mr. Gentletie's patriotic devotion to 
the Allied cause well merits the knighthood which 
is now bestowed on him." 

John [astounded]. Stay me with flagons! 

Tranto. So that's that! And who else.? 

Culver. Another of your esteemed uncles. 

Tranto. Well, that's not very startling, see- 
ing that my uncle's chief daily organ is really a 
department of the Government. 

John. What I say is 



ACT I 41 

Htldegarde [simvltaTieously with Johri]. 
Wouldn't it be more correct — [contmwmg alone] 
wouldn't it be more correct to say that the Gov- 
ernment is really a department of your uncle's 
chief daily organ ? 

John. Hilda, old girl, I wish you wouldn't 
interrupt. Cookery's your line. 

HUdegarde. Sorry, Johnnie. I see I was in 
danger of becoming unsexed. 

Cvlver \to John]. Yes? You were about to 
say? 

John. Oh, nothing. 

Cvlver [to Tranto]. Shall I read the passage 
on your uncle ? 

Tranto. Don't trouble. Who's the next? 

Culver. The next is — Ullivant, munitions 
manufacturer. Let me see [reads']. "By the 
simple means of saying that the cost price of 
shells was I85. 9d. each, whereas it was in fact 
only 195. 9d.y Mr. Joshua Ullivant has made a for- 
tune of two millions pound during the war. He 
has given a hundred thousand to the Prince of 
Wales' Fund, a hundred thousand to the Red 
Cross, and a hundred thousand to the party funds. 
Total net profit on the war, one million seven hun- 
dred thousand pounds, not counting the peerage 
which is now bestowed upon him, and which it 
must be admitted is a just reward for his remark- 
able business acumen." 



42 THE TITLE 

Tranto. Very agreeable fellow UUivant is, 
nevertheless. 

Culver. Oh, he is. They're most of them too 
damned agreeable for anything. Another promi- 
nent name is Orlando Bush. 

Tranto. Ah! 

Mrs. Culver. I've met his wife. She dances 
beautifully at charity matinees. 

Culver. No doubt. But apparently that's not 
the reason. 

Tranto. 1 know Orlando. I've just bought 
the serial rights of his book. 

Culver. Have you paid him? 

Tranto. No. 

Culver. How wise of you! [Reads.'] "Mr. 
Orlando Bush has written a historical sketch, with 
many circumstantial details, of the political ori- 
gins of the present Government. For his forebear- 
ance in kindly consenting to withhold publication 
until the end of the war Mr. Bush receives a well- 
earned 

Tranto. What? 

Culver. Knightwood. 

Tranto. Cheap ! But what a sell for me ! 

Culver. Now, ladies and gentlemen, the last 
name with which I will trouble you is that of Mr. 
James Brill. 

Tranto. Not Jimmy Brill I 

Culver. Jimmy Brill. 

Tranto. But he's a 



ACT I 43 

Ctdifer. Stop, my dear Tranto. No crude 
phrases, please. [Reads.'] "Mr. James Brill, to 
use the language of metaphor, possessed a pistol, 
which pistol he held point blank at the head of 
the Government. The Government has thought it 
wise to purchase Mr. James Brill's pistol " 

Tranto, But he's a 

Culver \_raising a hand] . He is merely the man 
with the pistol, and in exchange for the pistol he 
gets a baronetcy. 

Tranto. A baronetcy! 

Culver. His title and pistol will go rattling 
down the ages, my dear Tranto, from generation 
to generation. For the moment the fellow's name 
stinks, but only for the moment. In the nostrils 
of his grandson [third baronet], it will have a 
most sweet odour. 

Mrs. Culver. But all this is perfectly shock- 
ing. 

Culver. Now I hope you comprehend my emo- 
tion, darling. 

Mrs. Culver. But surely there are some nice 
names on the List. 

Culver. Of course. There have to be some 
nice names, for the sake of the psychological ef- 
fect on the public mind on New Year's Day. The 
public looks for a good name or for a name it can 
understand. It skims down the List till it sees one. 
Then it says: "Ah! That's not so bad!" Then 
it skims down further till it sees another one, and 



44 THE TITLE 

it says again: "Ah! That's not so bad!" And 
so on. So that with about five or six decent names 
you can produce the illusion that after all the 
List is really rather good. 

Hildegarde. The strange thing to me is that 
decent people condescend to receive titles at all. 

Mrs. Culver. Bravo, Hildegarde! Yes, if it's 
so bad as you make out, Arthur, why do decent 
people take Honours? 

Culver. I'll tell you. Decent people have 
wives, and their wives lead them by the nose. 
That's why decent people take honours. 

Mrs. Culver. Well, I think it's monstrous ! 

Culver. So it is. I've been a Conservative all 
my life ; I am a Conservative. I swear I am. And 
yet now when I look back, I'm amazed at the things 
I used to do. Why, once I actually voted against 
a candidate who stood for the reform of the House 
of Lords. Seems incredible. This war is changing 
my ideas. {^Suddenly, after a slight pause. 1^ I'm 
dashed if I don't join the Labour party and ask 
Ramsay Macdonald to lunch! 

Enter 'parlourmaid, bach 

Parlourmaid. You are wanted on the tele- 
phone, madam. 

Mrs. Culver. Oh, Arthur! [Pats him on the 
shoulder as she goes owi.] 

[Exit Mrs. Culver and parlourmaid, hach.'\ 



ACT I 45 

Culver, Hildegarde, go and see if you can 
hurry up dinner. 

Hildegarde. No one could. 

Culver. Never mind, go and see. \_Exit Hilde- 
garde, hack.^ John, just take these keys, and get 
some cigars out of the cabinet, you know, Par- 
tagas. 

John. Oh ! Is it a Partaga night ? 

\_Ea;it, back.l 

Culver {watclimg the door close^. Tranto, we 
are conspirators. 

Tranto, You and I? 

Culver, Yes. But we must have no secrets. 
Who wrote that article in The Echo? Who is 
Sampson Straight? 

Tranto [temporising, lightly]. You remind me 
of the man with the pistol. 

Culver. Is it Hildegarde? 

Tranto. How did you guess? 

Culver. Well, first I knew my daughter 
couldn't be the piffling lunatic who does your war 
cookery articles. Second, I asked myself: What 
reason has she for pretending to he that piffling 
lunatic? Third, I have an exceedingly high opin- 
ion of my daughter's brains. Fourth, she gave a 
funny start just now when I mentioned the idea 
of Sampson Straight going to the Tower. 

Tranto. Perhaps I ought to explain 

Culver. No, you oughtn't. There's no time. I 
simply wanted a bit of information. I've got it. 



46 THE TITLE 

Now I have a bit of information for you. I've 
been offered a place in this beautiful Honours 
List. Baronetcy ! Me ! I am put on the same 
high plane as Mr. James Brill the unspeakable. 
The formal offer hasn't actually arrived — it's 
late ; I expect the letter'll be here in the morning — 
but I know for a fact I'm in the List for a bar- 
onetcy. 

Tranto, Well, I congratulate you. 

Culver. You'd better not. 

Tranto. You deserve more than a baronetcy. 
Your department has been a striking success — 
one of the very few in the whole length of White- 
hall. 

Culver. I know my department has been a suc- 
cess. But that's not why I'm offered a baronetcy. 
Good heavens, I haven't even spoken to any mem- 
ber of the War Cabinet yet. I've been trying to 
for about a year, but in spite of powerful in- 
fluences to help me I've never been able to bring 
off a meeting with the mandarins. No ! I'm of- 
fered a baronetcy because I'm respectable; I'm 
decent; and at the last moment they thought the 
List looked a bit too thick — so they pushed me in. 
One of their brilliant afterthoughts ! . . . No 
damned merit about the thing, I can tell you! 

Tranto. Do you mean you intend to refuse.'* 

Culver. Do you mean you ever imagined that 
I should accept.? Me, in the same galley with 
Brill — who daren't go into his own clubs — and 



ACT I 47 

Ullivant, and a few more pretty nearly as bad! 
Of course I shall refuse. Nothing on earth would 
induce me to accept. Nothing! [^More cal7nLy.~\ 
Mind you, I don't blame the Government; prob- 
ably the Government can't help itself. Therefore 
the Government must be helped, and sometimes the 
best way to help a fellow creature is to bring him 
to his senses by catching him one across the jaw. 

Tranto. Why are you making a secret of it.'* 
The offer is surely bound to come out. 

Culver. Of course. I'm only making a secret 
of it for the moment, while I prepare the domestic 
ground for my refusal. 

Tranto. You wish me to understand 

Culver, You know what women are! [With 
caution.l I speak of the sex in general. 

Tranto. I see. 

Culver. That's all right. 

Tranto. Well, if I mayn't congratulate you on 
the title, let me congratulate you on your marvel- 
lous skill in this delicate operation of preparing 
the domestic ground for your refusal of the title. 
Your success is complete, absolute. 

Culver ^sardonic}. Complete? Absolute? 

Tranto. You have — er — jockeyed Mrs. — er — 
the sex into committing itself quite definitely 
against titles. Hence I look on your position as 
impregnable. 

Culver. Good heavens, Tranto! How old are 
you? 



48 THE TITLE 

Travito. Twenty-five. 

Culver. A quarter of a century — and you 
haven't learnt that no position is impregnable 
against — er — the sex ! You never know where the 
offensive will come, nor when, nor how. The of- 
fensive is bound to be a surprise. You aren't mar- 
ried. When you are you'll soon find out that 
being a husband is a whole-time job. That's why 
so many husbands fail. They can't give their en- 
tire attention to it. Tranto, my position must 
be still further strengthened — during dinner. It 
can't be strengthened too much. I've brought you 
into the conspiracy because you're on the spot and 
I want you to play up. 

Tranto, Certainly, sir. 

Culver, The official letter might come by 
to-night's post. If it does, a considerable amount 
of histrionic skill will be needed. 

Tranto, Trust me for that. 

Culver, Oh! I do! Indeed, I fancy after all 
I'm fairly safe. There's only one danger. 

TrantQ Yes.? 

Culver, My — I mean the sex, must hear of the 
offered title from me first. If the news came to 
her indirectly she'd 

Enter Mrs, Culver rapidly, bach 

Mrs, Culver ^rushing to hirri]. Darling! Dear- 
est ! What a tease you are ! You needn't pretend 



ACT I 49 

any longer. Lady Prockter has just whispered 
to me over the telephone that you're to have a 
baronetcy. Of course she'd be bound to know. 
She said I might tell you. I never dreamed of a 
title. I'm so glad. Oh! But you are a tease! 
[Kisses him enthusiastically.^ 



[CwrtainJ] 



ACT II 

The next day, after dinner. Culver and parlour- 
maid. 

Culver [handing parlourmaid a Utterly. That's 
for the post. Is Miss Starkey here? 

Parlourmaid. Yes, sir. She is waiting. 

Culver. Ask her to be good enough to keep on 
waiting. She may come in when I ring twice. 

Parlourmaid. Yes, sir. 

Enter Mrs. Culver, hack 

Mrs. Culver [to parlourmaid, stopping her as 
she goes out, dramatically]. Give me that letter. 
[She snatches the letter from the parlourmaid.] 
You can go. [Culver rises.] 

[Exit parlourmaid.] 

Mrs. Culver. I am determined to make a stand 
this time. 

Culver [soothingly]. So I see, darling. 

Mrs. Culver. I have given way to you all my 
life. But I won't give way now. This letter shall 
not go. 

Culver. As you like, darling. 
50 



ACT II 51 

Mrs, Culver. No. [She tears the envelope 
open^ without having looked at it, and throws the 
letter into the fire. In doing so she lets fall a 
cheque.'} 

Culver [rising and picking up the cheque']. I'll 
keep the cheque as a memento. 

Mrs. Culver. Cheque? What cheque? 

Culver. Darling, once in the old, happy days 
— I think it was last week — you and I were walk- 
ing down Bond Street, almost hand in hand — but 
not quite, and you saw a brooch in a shop-window. 
You simply had to have that brooch. I offered 
it to you for a Christmas present. You are wear- 
ing it now and very well it suits you. This [inr- 
dicating the cheque] was to pay the bill. 

Mrs. Culver. Arthur! 

Culver, Moral: Look before you burn. Miss 
Starkey will now have to write a fresh letter. 

Mrs, Culver, Arthur! You must forgive me. 
I'm in a horrid state of nerves, and you said you 
were positively going to write to Lord Woking 
to-night to refuse the title. 

Culver, I did say so. 

Mrs. Culver [hopefully']. But you haven't 
written ? 

Culver, I haven't. 

Mrs. Culver, You don't know how relieved I 
am! 

Culver [sitting down, drawing her to him, and 
setting her on his knee] , Infant! Dove! Cherub! 



52 THE TITLE 

Angel! . . . Devil! ^Caressing herJ] Are we 
friends ? 

Mrs. Culver, It kills me to quarrel with you. 
[They hiss.'] 

Culver. Darling, we are absurd. 

Mrs. Culver. I don't care. 

Culver, Supposing that any one came in and 
caught us ! 

Mrs. Culver. Well, we're married. 

Culver, But it's so long since. Hildegarde's 
twenty-one! John seventeen! 

Mrs. Culver, It seems to me like yesterday. 

Culver, Yes, you're incurably a girl. 

Mrs. Culver. I'm not. 

Culver, You are. And I'm a boy. I say we 
are absurd. We're continually absurd. We were 
absurd all last evening when we pretended before 
the others, with the most disastrous results, that 
nothing was the matter. We were still more ab- 
surd when we went to our twin beds and argued 
savagely with each other from bed to bed until 
four o'clock this morning. Do you know that I 
had exactly one hour and fifty-five minutes sleep? 
[Yawns.'] Do you know that owing to extreme 
exhaustion my behaviour at my office to-day has 
practically lost the war? But the most absurd 
thing of all was you trying to do the Roman ma- 
tron business at dinner to-night. Mind you, I 
adore you for being absurd, but 

Mrs. Culver [very endearingly, putting her 



ACT II 53 

hand on his mouthl. Dearest, you needn't con- 
tinue. I know you're wiser and stronger than me 
in every way. But I love that. Most women 
wouldn't; but I do. [Kisses him.'\ Ohf I'm so 
glad you've at last seen the force of my arguments 
about the title. 

Culver [gently warning^. Now, now! You're 
behaving like a journalist. 

Mrs, Culver. Like a journalist? 

Culver. Journalists say a thing that they 
know isn't true, in the hope that if they keep on 
saying it long enough it will be true. 

Mrs. Culver. But you do see the force of my 
arguments ! 

Culver. Quite. But I also see the force of 
mine, and as an impartial judge I'm bound to say 
that yours aren't in it with mine. 

Mrs. Culver. Then you've refused the title 
after all? 

Culver [ingratiatingly]. No. I told you I 
hadn't. But I'm going to. I was just thinking 
over the terms of the fatal letter to Lord Woking 
when you came in. Starkey is now waiting for me 
to dictate it. You see it positively must be posted 
to-night. 

Mrs. Culver [springing from his Tcnee]. Ar- 
thur, you're playing with me ! 

Culver. No doubt. Like a mouse plays with 
a cat. 



t THE TITLE 

Mrs, Culver, Surely it has occurred to 



you 

Culver [^firmly hut very pleasantly^. Stop! 
You had till four o'clock this morning to deliver 
all your arguments. You aren't going to begin 
again. I understand you've stayed in bed all day. 
Quite right! But if you stayed in bed merely to 
think of fresh arguments while I've been slaving 
away at the office for my country, I say you're 
taking an unfair advantage of me and I won't 
have it. 

Mrs. Culver [with dignity~\. No. I haven't 
any fresh arguments, and if I had I shouldn't say 
what they were. 

Culver. Oh! Why? 

Mrs. Culver. Because I can see it's useless to 
argue with a man like you. 

Culver. Now that's what I call better news 
from the- front. 

Mrs. Culver. I was only going to say this. 
Surely it, has occurred to you that on patriotic 
grounds alone you oughtn't to refuse the title. 
I quite agree that Honours have been degraded. 
Quite ! The thing surely is to try and make them 
respectable again. And how are they ever to be 
respectable if respectable men refuse them? 

Culver. This looks to me suspiciously like an 
argument. 

Mrs. Culver. Not at all. It's simply a ques- 
tion. 



ACT II 55 

Culver, Well, the answer is, I don't want hon- 
ours to be respectable any more. Proverb: When 
fish has gone bad ten thousand decent men can't 
take away the stink. 

Mrs, Cidz)er. Now you're insulting your coun- 
try. I know you often pretend your country's 
the slackest place on earth, but it's only pretence. 
You don't really think so. The truth is that in- 
side you you're positively conceited about your 
country. You think it's the greatest country that 
ever was. And so it is. And yet when your coun- 
try offers you this honour you talk about bad fish. 
I say it's an insult to Great Britain. 

Culver. Great Britain hasn't offered me any 
title. The fact is that there are a couple of 
shrewd fellows up a devil of a tree in Whitehall, 
and they're waving a title at me in the hope that 
I shall come and stand under the tree so that they 
can get down by putting their dirty boots on my 
shoulders. Well, I'm not going to be a ladder. 

Mrs. Culver. I wish you wouldn't try to be 
funny. 

Culver. I'm not trying to be funny. I am 
being funny. 

Mrs. Culver, You might be serious for once. 

Culver. I am serious. Beneath this amusing 
and delightful exterior, there is hidden the most 
serious, determined, resolute, relentless, inexora- 
ble, immovable man that ever breathed. And let 
me tell you something else, my girl — something I 



56 THE TITLE 

haven't mentioned before because of my nice feel- 
ings. What has this title affair got to do with 
you? What the dickens has it got to do with 
you? The title isn't offered as a reward for your 
work ; it's offered as a reward for my work. Yoii 
aren't the Controller of Accounts. / happen to be 
the Controller of Accounts. I have decided to 
refuse the title, and I shall refuse it. Nothing will 
induce me to accept it. Do I make myself clear, 
or [smiling affectionately'] am I lost in a mist of 
words ? 

Mrs. Culver [suddenly furious']. You are a 
brute. You always were. You never think of 
anybody but yourself. My life has been one long 
sacrifice, and you know it perfectly well. Per- 
fectly well! You talk about your work. What 
about my work? Why! You'd be utterly useless 
without me. You can't even look after your own 
collars. Could you go down to your ridiculous 
office without a collar? I've done everything for 
you, everything ! And now! [Weeping.] I can't 
even be called "my lady." I did so want to be 
called "my lady." I only wanted to hear the par- 
lourmaid call me "my lady." It seems a simple 
enough thing 

Culver [persuasively and softly^ trying to seize 
her.] You divine little snob ! 

Mrs. Culver [in a supreme, hlazvng outbreak, 
escaping him]. Let me alone! I told you at the 
start I should never give way. And I never will. 



ACT II 57 

Never ! If you send that letter of refusal, do you 
know what I shall do ? I shall go and see the War 
Cabinet myself. I shall tell them you don't mean 
it. I'll make the most horrible scandal. . . . 
When I think of the Duke of Wellington 

Culver [surprised and alarmed^. The Duke of 
Wellington ? 

Mrs. Culver [drawmg herself up at the door 
Z/]. The Duke of Wellington didn't refuse a 
title! Hildegarde shall sleep in our room, and 
you can have hers! [Exit violently, L.] 

Culver [intimidated, as she goes~\. Look here, 
hurricane ! [He rushes out after her,~\ 

Enter Hildegarde and Tranto, back 

Hildegarde [seeing the room empty]. Well, I 
thought I heard them. 

Tranto [catching noise of high words from the 
boudoir] . I fancy I do hear them. 

Hildegarde. Perhaps we'd better go. 

Tranto. But I want to speak to you — ^just 
for a moment. 

Hildegarde [moving uneasily]. What about? 

Tranto. I don't know. Anything. It doesn't 
matter what. ... I don't hear them now. 

Hildegarde [listening and hearing nothing; re- 
assured]. 1 should have thought you wouldn't 
have wanted to come here any more for a long 
time. 



58 THE TITLE 

Tranto. Why? 

Hildegarde. After the terrible experiences of 
last night, during dinner and after dinner. 

Tranto. The general constraint? 

Hildegarde. The general constraint. 

Tranto. The awkwardness? 

Hildegarde, The awkwardness. 

Tranto. The frightful silences and the forced 
conversations ? 

Hildegarde [^nods^. Why did you come? 

Tranto. Well 

Hildegarde. I suppose you're still confined to 
this house. 

Tranto \m a new confidential tone']. I wish 
you'd treat me as your father does. 

Hildegarde. But of course I will 

Tranto. That's fine. He treats me as an inti- 
mate friend. 

Hildegarde. But you must treat me as you 
treat papa. 

Tranto [sUghtlz/ dashed]. I'll try. I might 
tell you that I had two very straight talks with 
your father last night. 

Hildegarde. Two ? 

Tranto. Yes, one before dinner, and the other 
just before I left — when you'd gone to bed. He 
began them — both of them. 

Hildegarde. Oh ! So that you may be said to 
know the whole situation? 



ACT II 69 

Tranto. Yes. Up to the last thing last night, 
that is. 

Hildegarde. Since then it's developed on nor- 
mal lines. What do you think of it? 

Tranto. I adore your mother, but I think your 
father's quite right. 

Hildegarde. Well, naturally! I take that for 
granted. I was expecting something rather more 
original. 

Tranto. You shall have it. I think that you 
and I are very largely responsible for the situa- 
tion. I think our joint responsibility binds us 
inextricably together. 

Hildegarde. Mr. Tranto ! 

Tranto. Certainly. There's no doubt in my 
mind that your father was enormously influenced 
by Sampson Straight's article on the Honours 
scandal. In fact he told me so. And seeing that 
you wrote it and I published it 

Hildegarde [alarmed^ . You didn't tell him I'm 
Sampson Straight.? 

Tranto. Can you imagine me doing such a 
thing? 

Hildegarde. I hope not. Shall I tell you what 
/ think of the situation? 

Tranto. I wish you would. 

Hildegarde. I think such situations would 
never arise if parents weren't so painfully unro- 
mantic. I'm not speaking particularly of papa 
and mamma. I mean all parents. But take 



60 THE TITLE 

mamma. She's absolutely matter-of-fact. And 
papa's nearly as bad. Of course I know they're 
always calling each other by pet names ; but that's 
mere camouflage for their matter-of-factness. 
Whereas if they both had in them a little of the 
real romance of life — everything would be differ- 
ent. At the same time I needn't say that in this 
affair that we're now in the middle of — there's no 
question of ratiocination. 

Tranto. Of what? 

Hildegarde. Ratiocination Reasoning. On 
either side. 

Tranto. Oh, no ! 

HUdegarde, It's simply a question of mutual 

attitude, isn't it? Now if only But there! 

What's the use? Parents are like that, poor 
dears! They have forgotten! iWith emphasis.'] 
They have forgotten — what makes life worth liv- 
ing. 

Tranto, You mean, for instance, your mother 
never sits on your father's knee. 

HUdegarde [bravely, after hesitation^. Yes! 
Crudely — that's what I do mean. 

Tranto. Miss Hildegarde, you are the most 
marvellous girl I ever met. You are, really ! You 
seem to combine all qualities. It's amazing to me. 
I'm more and more astounded. Every time I come 
here there's a fresh revelation. Now you mention 
romance. I'm glad you mentioned it first. But I 
saw it first. I saw it in your eyes the first time I 



ACT II 61 

ever met you. Yes ! Miss Hilda, do you see it 
in mine? Look. Look closely. [^Approaching 
her,^ Because it's there. I must tell you. I can't 
wait any longer. [Fseiing for her hand, vainly. '\ 
Hildegarde [drawing hack^. Mr. Tranto, is 
this the way you treat father.? 

Enter Mr, Culver, back 

Culver [quickly], Hilda, go to your mother. 
She's upstairs. 

Hildegarde. What am I to do.'* 

Culver. I don't know. [With meaning.] 
Think what the sagacious Sampson Straight 
would do and do that. 

[Hildegarde gives a sharp look first at 
Culver and then at Tranto, and exit, 
hack.] 

Culver [turning to Tranto^. My dear fellow, 
the war is practically over. 

Tranto. Good heavens! There was nothing 
on the tape when I left the Club. 

Culver. Oh ! I don't mean your war. I mean 
the twenty-two years' war. 

Tranto. The twenty-two years' war.'' 

Culver. My married life. Over! Finished! 
Napoo ! 

Tranto. Do you know what you're saying.'* 

Culver. Look here, Tranto. You and I don't 
belong to the same generation. In fact if I'd 



62 THE TITLE 

started early enough I might have been your 
father. But we got so damned intimate last night 
and I'm in such a damned hole and you're so 
damned wise, that I feel I must talk to you. Not 
that it'll be any use. 

Tranto. But what's the matter? 

Culver. The matter is — keeping a woman in 
the house. 

Tranto. Mr. Culver! You don't mean 

Culver. I mean my wife — of course. I've just 
had the most ghastly rumpus with my wife. It 
was divided into two acts. The first act took place 
here, the second in the boudoir [indicating bou- 
doir]. The second act was the shortest but the 
worst. 

Tranto. But what was it all about.'' 

Culver. Now for heaven's sake don't ask silly 
questions. You know perfectly well what it was 
about. It was about that baronetcy. I have de- 
cided to refuse the baronetcy, and my wife has re- 
fused to let me refuse it. 

Tranto. But what are her arguments.'' 

Culver. I've implored you once not to ask silly 
questions. "What are her arguments" indeed! 
She hasn't got any arguments. You know that. 
You're too wise not to know it. She merely wants 
the title, that's all. 

Tranto. And how did the second act end.'' 

Culver. I don't quite remember. 

Tranto. Let me suggest that you sit down. 



ACT II 63 

\^Culver sits.^ Thanks. Now I've always gath- 
ered from my personal observation that you, if I 
may say so, are the top dog here when it comes 
to the point, — the crowned head, as it were. 

Culver. Uneasy lies the head that wears a 
crown. At least it did last night, and I shall be 
greatly surprised if it doesn't to-night. 

Tranto. Naturally. A crown isn't a night- 
cap. But you are the top dog. In the last resort, 
what you say goes. That is so, isn't it? I only 
want to be clear. 

Culver. Yes, I think that's pretty right. 

Tranto. Well, you have decided on public 
grounds, and as a question of principle, to refuse 
the title. You intend to refuse it. 

Culver 1 — I do. 

Tranto, Nobody can stop you from refus- 
ing it. 

Culver. Nobody. 

Tranto. Mrs. Culver can't stop you from re- 
fusing it? 

Culver. Certainly not. It concerns me alone. 

Tranto. Well, then, where is the difficulty? A 
rumpus — I think you said. What of that? My 
dear Mr. Culver, believe me, I have seen far more 
of marriage than you have. You're only a mar- 
ried man. I'm a bachelor, and I've assisted at 
scores of married lives. A rumpus is nothing. It 
passes — and leaves the victor more firmly estab- 
lished than ever before. 



64 THE TITLE 

Cvlver [risvng]. Don't talk to me of rumpuses. 
I know all about rumpuses. This one is an arch- 
rumpus. This one is like no other rumpus that 
ever was. It's something new in even my vast ex- 
perience. I shall win. I have won. But at what 
cost.? [With effect.'] The cost may be that I 
shall never kiss the enemy again. The whole do- 
mestic future is in grave jeopardy. 

Tranto. Seriously .f^ 

Culver. Seriously. 

Tranto. Then you mustn't win. 

Culver. But what about my public duty.'* 
What about my principles.'^ I can't sacrifice my 
principles. 

Tranto. Why not? 

Culver. I never have. 

Tranto. How old are you? 

Culver. Forty-four. 

Tranto. And you've never sacrificed a prin- 
ciple ? 

Culver Never. 

Tranto. Then it's high time you began. And 
you'd better begin, before it's too late. Besides, 
there are no principles in married life. 

Culver. Tranto, you are remarkable. How did 
you find that out? 

Tranto. I've often noticed. 

Culver. It's a profound truth. It throws a 
new light on the entire situation. 

Tranto. It does. 



ACT II 65 

Culver. Then you deliberately advise me to 
give way about the title? 

Tranto. 1 do. 

Culver, Strange ! [Casually.'] I had thought 
of doing so, but I never dreamt you'd agree, and 
I'd positively determined to act on your advice. 
You know, you're taking an immense responsi- 
bility. 

Tranto. I can bear that. What I couldn't 
bear is any kind of real trouble in this house. 

Culver. Why? What's it got to do with you? 

Tranto, Nothing! Nothing! Only my ab- 
stract interest in the institution of marriage. 

Culver [ringmg the hell twice'] . Ah, well, after 
all, I'm not utterly beaten yet. I've quite half an 
hour before post goes, and I shall fight to the last 
ditch. 

Tranto, But hasn't Mrs. Culver retired? 

Culver. Yes. 

Tranto, May I suggest that it would be mis- 
taken tactics to — er — run after her? 

Culver. It would. 

Tranto. Well then ! 

Culver. She will return. 

Tranto, How do you know? 

Culver, She always does. . . . No, Tranto, 
I may yet get peace on my own terms. You see 
I'm an accountant. No ordinary people, account- 
ants! For one thing they make their money by 



66 THE TITLE 

counting other people's. I've known accountants 
do marvellous stunts. 



Enter Miss Starket/, back 

Tranto. I'll leave you. 

Culver, You'll find John somewhere about. I 
shan't be so very long — I hope. Miss Starkey 
kindly take down these two letters. How much 
time have we before post goes. 

{^Exit Tranto, back.'\ 

Miss Starkey. Forty minutes. 

Culver. Excellent. 

Miss Starkey [^indicating some papers which she 
has brought^ . These things ought to be attended 
to to-night. 

Culver, Possibly. But they won't be. 

Miss Starkey. The Rosenberg matter is very 
urgent. He leaves for Glasgow to-morrow. 

Culver. I wish he'd leave for Berlin. I won't 
touch it to-night. Please take down these two 
letters. 

Miss Starkey. Then it will be necessary for 
you to be at the office at 9.30 in the morning. 

Culver. I dechne to be at the office at 9.30 in 
the morning. 

Miss Starkey. But I've an appointment for 
you. I was afraid you wouldn't do anything to- 
night. 

Culver [resigned']. Very well! Very well! Tell 



ACT II 67 

them to call me, and see cook about breakfast. 
[Begvnning to dictated] "My dear Lord Wo- 
king." 

Miss Starkey [sitting]. Excuse me, is this let- 
ter about the title ? 

Culver, Yes. 

Miss Starkey, Then it ought to be an auto- 
graph letter. That's the etiquette. 

Culver, How do you know? 

Miss Starkey, General knowledge. 

Culver, In this case the rule will be broken. 
That's flat. 

Miss Starkey, Then I must imitate your hand- 
writing. 

Culver, Can you? 

Miss Starkey, You ought to know, Mr. Culver 
— ^by this time. 

Culver, I don't know officially. However, 
have your own way. Forget the whole thing, sig- 
nature and all. I don't care. "My dear Lord 
Woking. Extreme pressure of — er — government 
business has compelled me to leave till last thing 
to-night my reply to your letter in which you are 
good enough to communicate to me the offer of a 
baronetcy. I cannot adequately express to you 
my sense of the honour in contemplation, but, 
comma, for certain personal reasons with which I 
need not trouble you, comma, I feel bound, with 
the greatest respect and the greatest gratitude, to 
ask to be allowed to refuse. [Miss Starkey shows 



68 THE TITLE 

emotion.'l I am sure I can rely on you to con- 
vey my decision to the proper quarter with all 
your usual tact. Believe me, my dear Lord Wo- 
king, Cordially yours." [To Miss StarheyJ] 
What in heaven's name is the matter with you ? 

Miss Starhey, Mr. Culver, I shall have to 
give you a month's notice. 

Culver [staggered~\. Have — ^have you gone 
mad, too? 

Miss Starhey. Not that I am aware of. But 
I must give a month's notice — for certain personal 
reasons with which I need not trouble you. 

Culver. Young woman, you know that you are 
absolutely indispensable to me. You know that 
without you I should practically cease to exist. 
I am quite open with you as to that — and as to 
everything. You are acquainted with the very 
depths of my character and the most horrible se- 
crets of my life. I conceal nothing from you, and 
I demand that you conceal nothing from me. 
What are your reasons for giving me notice in 
this manner? 

Miss Starhey. My self-respect would not al- 
low me to remain with a gentleman who had re- 
fused a title. Oh, Mr. Culver, to be the private 
secretary to a baronet has been my life's dream. 
And — and — I have just had the offer of a place 
where a peerage is in prospect. Still, I wouldn't 
have taken even that if you had not — if you had 
not^ [^Controllvng herself , coldly. ~\ Kindly 



ACT II 69 

accept my notice. I give it at once because I 
shall have no time to lose for the peerage. 

Culver. Miss Starkey, you drive me to the old, 
old conclusion — all women are alike. 

Miss Starkey. Then my leaving will cause you 
no inconvenience, because you'll easily get another 
girl exactly like me. 

Culver. You are a heartless creature. [^In an 
ordinary voice. ^^ Did we finish the first letter.'' 
This is the second one. [Dictates.'] "My dear 
Lord Woking " 

Miss Starkey. But you've just given me that 
one. 

Culver [firmly] . "My dear Lord Woking." Go 
on the same as the first one down to "I cannot 
adequately express to you my sense of the honour 
in contemplation." Full stop. "I need hardly 
say that, in spite of my feeling that I have done 
only too little to deserve it, I accept it with the 
greatest pleasure and the greatest gratitude. Be- 
lieve me, etc." 

Miss Starkey. But 

Culver. Don't imagine that your giving me no- 
tice has affected me in the slightest degree. It 
has not. I told you I had two letters. I have not 
yet decided whether to accept or refuse the title. 
[Enter Mrs. Culver, back.] Go and copy both 
letters and bring them in to me in a quarter of 
an hour, whether I ring or not. That will give 
you plenty of time for post. Now — run ! [Exit 



70 THE TITLE 

Miss StarJcey, back. Culver rises, clears Ms 
throat, and obviously braces himiself for a final 
effort of firmness. Mrs. Culver calmly rearranges 
some flowers in a vase.^ Well, my dear, I was ex- 
pecting you. 

Mrs. Culver [very sweetly']. Arthur, I was 
wrong. 

Culver [startled]. Good God! [Mrs. Culver 
bends down to examine the upholstery of a chair. 
Culver gives a gesture first of triumph, and then 
of apprehension.] 

Mrs. Culver [looking straight at him], I say I 
was wrong. 

Culver [lightly but uneasily] . Oh, no ! Oh, no ! 

Mrs. Culver. Of course, I don't mean wrong in 
my arguments about the title. Not for a moment. 
I mean I was wrong not to sacrifice my own point 
of view. I'm only a woman, and it's the woman's 
place to submit. So I do submit. Naturally I 
shall always be a true wife to you, but 

Culver. Now, child, don't begin to talk like 
that. I don't mind reading novels, but I won't 
have raw lumps of them thrown at me. 

Mrs. Culver [with a gentle smile] . I must talk 
like this. I shall do everything I can to make you 
comfortable, and I hope nobody, and especially 
not the poor children, will notice any diiFerence 
in our relations. 

Culver [advancing, with a sort of menace]. 
But.? 



ACT II 71 

Mrs. Culver. But things can never be the 
same again. 

Culver. I knew the confounded phrase was 
coming. I knew it. I've read it scores of times. 
[Picking up the vase.^ Hermione, if you con- 
tinue in that strain, I will dash this vase into a 
thousand fragments. 

Mrs. Culver [quietli/ taking the vase from him 
and putting it down^ . Arthur, I could have for- 
given you everything. What do I care — really — 
about a title? \^Falsely.^ I only care for your 
happiness. But I can't forgive you for having 
laid a trap for me last night — and in front of the 
children and a stranger too. 

Culver. Laid a trap for you? 

Mrs. Culver. You knew all about the title 
when you first came in last night and you deliber- 
ately led me on. 

Culver. Oh ! That ! Ah well ! One does what 
one can. You've laid many a trap for me, my 
girl. You're still about ten up and two to play 
in the trap game. 

Mrs. Culver. I've never laid a trap for you. 

Culver. Fibster! Come here. [Mrs. Culver 
hesitates.^ Come hither — and be kissed. [She 
approaches submissively, and then, standing like 
a marble statue, allows herself to be kissed. Cul- 
ver assumes the attitude of the triumphant mag- 
nanimous male.^ There ! That's all right. 

Mrs, Culver [having moved away; stiU very 



72 THE TITLE 

sweetly and coldlif]. Can I do anything else for 
you before I go to bed? 

Culver [ignoring the question; grandly and tol- 
erantly^. Do you suppose, my marble statue — 
that after all I've said at the Club about the ras- 
cality of this Honours business, I could ever 
have appeared there as a New Year Baronet? 
The thing's unthinkable. Why, I should have had 
to resign and join another Club! 

Mrs. Culver ^calmly and severely"]. So that's 
it, is it? I might have known what was really at 
the bottom of it all. Your Club again! You 
have to choose between your wife and your Club, 
and of course it's your wife that must suffer. 
Naturally ! 

Culver. Go on! You'll be saying next that 
I've committed bigamy with my Club. 

Mrs. Culver [with youthful vivacity']. I'm 
an old woman 

Culver [flatteringly]. Yes, look at you! Hag! 
When I fell in love with you your hair was 
still down. The marvel to me is that I ever let 
you put it up. 

Mrs. Culver. I'm only an old woman now. You 
have had the best part of my life. You might have 
given me great pleasure with this title. But no! 
Your Club comes first. And what a child you 
are! As if there's one single member of your 
Club who wouldn't envy you your baronetcy ! 
However, I've nothing more to say. [Momng to- 



ACT II 73 

wards the door, hach.~\ Oh yes, I have. [Casual- 
ly.^ Fve decided to go away to-morrow and stay 
with grandma for a long hohday. She needs me, 
and if I'm not to break down entirely I must have 
a change. I've told Hildegarde our — arrange- 
ments. The poor girl's terribly upset. Please 
don't disturb me in the morning. I shall take the 
noon train. Goodnight. 

Culver. Hermione ! 

Mrs. Culver [returning a little from the direc- 
tion of the door, submissively^. Yes, Arthur. 

Culver. If you keep on playing the martyr 
much longer there will be bloodshed and you'll 
know what martyrdom is. 

Mrs. Culver [in a slightly relentvng tone^ . Ar- 
thur, you were always conscientious. Your con- 
science is working. 

Culver. 1 have no conscience. Never had. 

Mrs. Culver [persuasively and with much 
charm^. Yes you have, and it's urging you to 
give way to your sensible little wife. You know 
you're only bluffing. 

Culver. Indeed I'm not. 

Mrs. Culver. Yes, you are. Mr. Tranto ad- 
vised you to give way, and you think such a lot 
of his opinion. 

Culver. Who told you Tranto advised me to 
give way? 

Mrs. Culver, He did. 

Culver. Damn him! 



74 THE TITLE 

Mrs. Culver [soothingly]. Yes, yes. 

Culver. No, no! 

Mrs. Culver. And your dear indispensable 
Miss Starkey thinks the same. \_She tries to kiss 
him.] 

Culver. No, no ! [Mrs. Culver succeeds m 
Ms sing him.] 

Enter Miss Starkey. The other two spring apart, 
A short pause. 

Culver. Which is the refusal? 

Miss Starkey. This one. 

Culver. Put it in the fire. [Miss Starkey obeys. 
Both the women show satisfaction in their differ- 
ent ways.] Give me the acceptance. [He takes 
the letter of acceptance and reads it.] 

Mrs. Culver [while he is reading the letter]. 
Miss Starkey, you look very pale. Have you had 
any dinner? 

Miss Starkey. Not yet, madam. 

Mrs. Culver. You poor dear! [She strokes 
Miss Starkey. They both look at the tyrannical 
male.] I'll order something for you at once. 

Miss Starkey. I shall have to go to the post 
first. 

Culver [glancing up]. I'll go to the post my- 
self. I must have air, air ! Where's the envelope ? 
[Exit Miss Starkey quickly, hack.] 



ACT II 75 

Mrs. Culver gently takes the letter from her htis- 
hand arid reads it. Culver drops into a chair. 

Mrs. Culver Inputting dozrni the letter']. Dar- 
ling ! 

Culver. I thought I was a brute? 

Mrs. Culver [caressimg and kissing him]. I do 
so love my brute, and I am so happy. Darling! 
But you are a silly old darling, wasting all this 
time. 

Culver, Wasting all what time? 

Mrs. Culver. Why, the moment I came in 
again I could see you'd decided to give way ! [With 
a gesture of delight.] I must run and tell the 
children. [Exit L.] 

Enter Miss Starhey, hack 

Miss Starkey. Here's the envelope. 

Culver [taking it]. Tell them to get me my 
hat and overcoat. 

Miss Starkey. Yes, Sir Arthur. [Cidver 
starts.] [Exit Miss Starkey, back.] 

Culver [as he put the letter i/n the envelope; with 
an air of discovery]. I suppose I do like being 
called "Sir Arthur." 

Enter Hildegarde and John, both disgusted, back 

John [to Hildegarde, as they come in]. I told 
you last night he couldn't control even the mater. 
However, I'll be even with her yet. 



76 THE TITLE 

Culver. What do you mean, boy ? 

John. I mean I'll be even with the mater yet. 
You'll see. 

Hildegarde. Papa, you've behaved basely. 
Basely ! What an example to us ! I intend to 
leave this house and live alone. 

Culver. You ought to marry Mr. Sampson 
Straight. [Hildegarde starts and is silent.'] 

John. Fancy me having to go back to school 
the son of a rotten baronet, and with the fright- 
ful doom of being a rotten baronet mj^self. What 
price the anti-hereditary-principle candidate.'^ 
Dad, I hope you won't die just yet — it would ruin 
my political career. Stay me with flagons ! 

Culver. Me too! 



\_Curtai/n.^ 



ACT III 

The next day, before lunch, Hildegarde and John 
are together. 

John [^nervously impatient Ji . I wish she'd 
come. 

Hildegarde. She'll be here in a moment. She's 
fussing round dad. 

John. Is he really ill? 

Hildegarde. Well, of course. It came on in 
the night, after he'd had time to think things 
over. Why ? 

John. I read in some paper about the Prime 
Minister having only a political chill. So I 
thought perhaps the pater — under the circs 

Hildegarde ^shaking her head^. You can't 
have political dyspepsia. Can't fake the symp- 
toms. Who is to begin this affair, you or me.^* 

John. Depends. What line are you going on 
with her? 

Hildegarde. I'm going to treat her exactly 
as she treats me. I've just thought of it. Only 
I shan't lose my temper. 

John. Sugarsticks? 

Hildegarde. Yes. 

77 



78 THE TITLE 

John, You'll never be able to keep it up. 

Hildegarde. Oh, yes, I shall. Somehow I feel 
much more mature than I did yesterday. 

John. More mature? Stay me with flagons! 
I was always mature. If you knew what rot I 
think school is ... ! Well, anyway, you can be- 
gin. 

Hildegarde. You're very polite to-day, John- 
nie. 

John. Don't mention it. My argument '11 be 
the best, and I want to keep it for the end, that's 
all. 

Hildegarde. Thanks. But I bet you we shall 
both fail. 

John. Well, if we do, I've still got something 
else waiting for her ladyship. A regular startler, 
my child. 

Hildegarde, What is it.'* 

Enter Mrs. Culver, hack 

John \^to Hildegarde, as Mrs. Culver enters']. 
Wait and see. 

Mrs. Culver \^cheerful and affectionate, to 
John]. So you've come in. [To Hildegarde.] 
You are back early to-day! Well, my darlings, 
what did you want me for.^* 

Hildegarde [imitating her mother's manner]. 
Well, mamma darling, we hate bothering you. We 
know you've got quite enough worries without 



ACT III 79 

having any more. But it's about this baronetcy 
business. [Mrs. Culver starts.'] Do be an angel 
and listen to us. 

Mrs. Culver [zmth admirable self-control]. Of 
course, my pet. But you know the matter is 
quite, quite settled. Your father and I settled 
it together last night, and the letter of acceptance 
is in the hands of the Government by this time. 

John, It isn't, mater. It's here. IPulls the 
letter out of his pocket.] 

Mrs. Culver. John! What 

John. Now, now, mater ! Keep calm. This 
is really your own doing. Pater wanted to go to 
the post himself: but it was raining a bit, and 
you're always in such a fidget about his getting 
his feet wet you wouldn't let him go, and so I 
went instead. 

Hildegarde. Yes, mummy darling, you must 
acknowledge that you were putting temptation 
in Johnnie's way. 

John. Soon as I got outside, I said to myself: 
"I think the pater ought to have a night to think 
over this affair. It's very important. And he 
can easily send round an answer by hand in the 
morning." So I didn't post the letter. I should 
have told you earlier, but you weren!t down for 
breakfast and I had to go out afterwards on ur- 
gent private business. 

Mrs. Culver. But — but — [controlling herself. 



80 THE TITLE 

grieved hut kind']. Your father will be terribly 
angry. I daren't face him. 

John [^only half -suppressing his amu^eTnent at 
the last remark'] . Don't let that worry you. I'll 
face him. He'll be delighted. He'll write another 
letter, and quite a different one. 

Mrs. Culver \_getti7ig firmer.] But don't I tell 
you, my dearest boy, that the affair is settled, 
quite settled.'' 

John. It isn't settled so long as I've got this 
letter, anyway. 

Hildegarde. Of course it isn't settled. Mother 
darling, we simply must look the facts in the face. 
Fact one, the letter is here. Fact two, the whole 
family is most frightfully upset. Dad's ill 

Mrs. Culver. That was the lobster. 

John. It wasn't. 

Mrs. Culver. Yes, dear. Lobster always up- 
sets him. 

John, It didn't this time. 

Mrs. Culver. How do you know? 

John. I know because / ate all his lobster. He 
shoved it over to me. You couldn't see for the 
fruit-bowl. 

Hildegarde. No, mamma sweetest. It's this 
baronetcy business that's knocked poor papa 
over. And it's knocked over Johnnie and me too. 
I'm perfectly, perfectly sure you acted for the 
best, but don't you think you persuaded father 



ACT III 81 

against his judgment? Not to speak of our judg- 
ment ! 

Mrs. Culver. I've only one thought 

Hildegarde Icaressing and kissi/ng her mother^. 
I know! I know! Father's happiness. Our hap- 
piness. Mamma, please don't imagine for a sin- 
gle instant that we don't realise that. You're the 
most delicious darling of an old mater 

Mrs. Culver [^slightly su^picious^. Hildegarde, 
you're quite a different girl to-day. 

Hildegarde [^nods^. I've aged in a single 
night. I've become ever so serious. This baro- 
netcy business has shown me that I've got convic- 
tions — and deep convictions. I admit I'm a differ- 
ent girl to-day. But then everything's different 
to-day. The whole house is different. Johnnie's 
different. Papa's missed going to the office for 
the first time in over eight months. [Very sweet- 
ly.^ Surely you must see, mamma, that some- 
thing ought to be done and that you alone can do 
it. 

Mrs. Culver. What? What ought I to do? 

Hildegarde. Go upstairs and tell dad you've 
changed your mind about the title and advise him 
to write off instantly and refuse it. You know 
you always twist him round your little finger. 

Mrs. Culver [looking at her little finger^. I 
shouldn't dream of trying to influence your fa- 
ther once he had decided. And he has decided. 

Hildegarde \_sweetly']. Mamma, you're most 



82 THE TITLE 

tremendously clever — far cleverer than any of us 
— but I'm not sure if you understand the attitude 
of the modern girl towards things that affect her 
convictions. 

Mrs. Cvlmr [^sweetly]. Are you the modern 
girl? 

Hildegarde. Yes. 

Mrs. Culver. Well, I'm the ancient girl. And 
I can tell you this — you're very like me, and 
we're both very like somebody else. 

Hildegarde. Who's that.? 

Mrs. Culver. Eve. 

John. Come, mater. Eve would never have 
learnt typewriting. She'd have gone on the land. 

Mrs. Culver, John, your sister and I are not 
jesting. 

Hildegarde. I'm so glad you admit I'm serious, 
mamma. Because I am — very. I don't want to 
threaten 

Mrs. Culver. Threaten, darling? 

Hildegarde [firmly, hut quite lightly and sweet- 
ly']. No, darling. Not to threaten. The mere 
idea of threatening is absurd. But it would be 
extremely unfair to you not to tell you that un- 
less you agree to father refusing the title, I shall 
have to leave the house and live by myself. I real- 
ly shall. Of course I can easily earn my own liv- 
ing. I quite see that you have principles. But I 
also have principles. If they clash — naturally 



ACT III 83 

it's my place to retire. And I shall, mamma dear- 
est. 

Mrs. Culver, Is that final? 

Hildegarde, Final, mummy darling. 

Mrs. Culver, Then, my dearest child, you must 
go. 

Hildegarde Istill sweetly']. Is that final.? 

Mrs. Culver Istill sweetly']. Final, my poor 
pet. 

John [firmly]. Now let me say a word. 

Mrs. Culver [benignly]. And what have you 
got to say in the matter? You've already been 
very naughty about that letter. Do try not to 
be ridiculous. Give me the letter. This affair 
has nothing whatever to do with you. 

John [putting the letter m his pocket]. Noth- 
ing whatever to do with me! Mater, you really 
are a bit too thick. If it was a knighthood I 
wouldn't care. You could have your blooming 
knighthood. Knighthoods do come to an end. 
Baronetcies go on for ever. I've told the dad and 
I'll tell you, that / will not have my political 
career ruined by any baronetcy. And if you in- 
sist — may I respectfully inform you what I shall 
do? May I respectfully inform you? May I? 

Mrs. Culver. John! 

John. I shall chuck Siege and go into the Fly- 
ing Corps. And that's flat. If you really want 
to shorten my life, all you have to do is to stick 
to that bally baronetcy. 



84 THE TITLE 

Mrs, Culver. Your father won't allow you to 
join the Flying Corps. 

John. My father can't stop me. I know the 
mess is expensive, but the pay's good, and I've 
got £150 of my own. Not a fortune! Not a 
fortune ! But enough, quite enough. A short life 
and a merry one. I went to see Captain Skewes 
at the Automobile this morning. One of our old 
boys. He's delighted. He gave me Lanchester's 
"Aircraft in Warfare" to read. Here it is. [Fick- 
ing up the book.^ Here it is! I shall sit up all 
night to-night reading it. A short life and a merry 
one. 

Mrs. Culver. You don't mean it I 

John. I absolutely do. 

Mrs. Culver [^after a paused . John, you're 
trying to bully your mother. 

John. Not in the least, mater. I'm merely 
telling you what will happen if father accepts that 
piffling baronetcy. 

Mrs. Culver [^checking a tear; very sweetly~\. 
Well, my pets, you make life just a little difficult 
for me. I live only for you and your father. I 
think first of your father and then of you two. 
For myself, I am perfectly indifferent. I consider 
all politics extremely silly. There never were any 
in my family, nor in your father's. And to me it's 
most extraordinary that your father should catch 
them so late in life. I always supposed that after 
thirty people were immune. \_To John.~\ You, 



ACT III 86 

I suppose, were bound to have them sooner or 
later, but that Hilda should go out of her way to 
contract them, — well, it passes me. It passes me. 
However, I've no more to say. Your father had 
made up his mind to accept the title. You want 
him to refuse it. I hate to influence him [^Hilde- 
garde again hides a cynical smile^ but for your 
sakes I'll try to persuade him to alter his decision 
and refuse it. 

John [^taking her arrn]. Come along, then, — 
now ! I'll go with you, to see fair play. 

[He opens the door L and Mrs. Culver passes 
out. Then stopping in the doorway, to Hilde- 
garde.~\ Who did the trick? I say — who did the 
trick? 

Hildegarde [nicely^. Pooh! You may be a 
prefect at school. But here you're only mamma's 
wee lamb! [She drops on to the sofa.'] 

John \_singing triumphantly]. Stay-^me^ — 
with fla — gons! \^Ea:it John L.] 

Enter Tranto, back, shown in by the parlourmaid 

Tranto. How d'ye do. Miss Hilda. I'm in a 
high state of nerves. 

Hildegarde ^shaking hands weakly]. We all 
are. 

Tranto ^ignoring what she says]. I've come 
specially to see you. 

Hildegarde. But how did you know I should 



86 THE TITLE 

be here — at this time? I'm supposed to be at the 
Food Ministry till one o'clock. 

Tranto. I called for you at the Ministry. 

Hildegarde [leaning forward]. That's quite 
against the rules. The rules are made for the 
moral protection of the women-clerks. 

Tranto. They told me you'd left early. 

Hildegarde. Why did you call? 

Tranto. Shall I be frank? 

Hildegarde. Are you ever? 

Tranto. I wanted to walk home with you. 

Hildegarde. Are you getting frightened about 
that next article of mine? 

Tranto. No. I've lost all interest in articles. 

Hildegarde. Even in my articles? 

Tranto. Even in yours. I'm only interested 
in the writer of your articles. [Agitated.] Miss 
Hilda, the hour is about to strike. 

Hildegarde. What hour? 

Tranto. Listen, please. Let me explain. The 
situation is this. Instinct has got hold of me. 
When I woke up this morning something inside 
me said : "You must call at the Ministry for that 
young woman and walk home with her." This 
idea seemed marvellously beautiful to me, it 
seemed one of the most enchanting ideas that had 
ever entered the heart of man. I thought of noth- 
ing else all morning. When I reached the Min- 
istry and you'd gone, I felt as if I'd been shot. 
Then I rushed here. If you hadn't been at home 



ACT III 87 

I don't know what I should have done. My fever 
has been growing every moment. Providentially 
you are here. I give you fair warning that I'm 
utterly in the grip of an instinct which is ridicu- 
lously unconventional and which somehow will 
brook no delay. I repeat, the hour is about to 
strike. 

Hildegarde [rousmg herself^. Before it ac- 
tually strikes I want to ask a question. 

Tranto. But that's just what I want to do. 

Hildegarde, Please. One moment of your 
valuable time. 

Tranto. The whole of my life. 

Hildegarde, Last night, why did you advise 
papa to give way to mamma and accept the baro- 
netcy ? 

Tranto. Did I.? 

Hildegarde, It seems so. 

Tranto, Well — er 

Hildegarde, You know it's quite against his 
principles, and against mine and Johnnie's, not 
to speak of yours. 

Tranto, The fact is, you yourself had given 
me such an account of your mother's personality 
that I felt sure she'd win anyhow, and — and — for 
reasons of my own I wished to be on the winning 
side. No harm in that, surely. And as regards 
principles, I have a theory about principles. 
Your father was much struck by it when I told 
him. 



88 THE TITLE 

Hildegarde. Namely ? 

Tranto. There are no principles in married 
life. 

Hildegarde. Oh indeed! Well, there may not 
be any principles in your married life, but there 
most positively will be in mine, if I ever have a 
married life. And let me tell you that you aren't 
on the winning side after all, — you're on the los- 
ing side. 

Tranto. How? Has your 

Hildegarde. Johnnie and I have had a great 
interview with mamma, and she's yielded. She's 
abandoned the baronetcy. In half an hour from 
now the baronetcy will have been definitely and 
finally refused. 

Tranto. Great scott ! 

Hildegarde, You're startled.'^ 

Tranto. No! After all, I might have fore- 
seen that you'd come out on top. The day before 
yesterday your modesty was making you say that 
your mother could eat you. I on the contrary in- 
sisted that you could eat your mother. Who was 
right.? I ask: Who was right.? When it really 
comes to the point, — well, you have a serious talk 
with your mother, and she gives in ! 

Hildegarde [gloomilT/li. No ! / didn't do it. I 
tried, and failed. Then Johnnie tried, and did it 
without the slightest trouble. A schoolboy! 
That's why I'm so upset. 

Tranto [shaking his head^. You mustn't tell 



ACT III 89 

me that, Miss Hilda. Of course it was you that 

did it. 

Hildegarde [impatiently; standi/ng upl. But I 

do tell you. 

Tranta. Sorry! Sorry! Do be merciful ! My 
feelings about you at this very moment are so, if 
I may use the term, unbridled 

Hildegarde [mth false gentle coZm]. And 
that's not all. I suppose you haven't by any 
chance told father that I'm Sampson Straight? 

Tranto. Certainly not. 

Hildegarde. You're sure? 

Tranto. Absolutely. 

Hildegarde. Well, I'm sorry. 

Tranto. Why? 

Hildegarde [quietly sarcastic']. Because papa 
told me you did tell him. Therefore father is a 
liar. I don't like being the daughter of a liar. 
I hate liars. 

Tranto. Aren't you cutting yourself off from 

mankind ? 

Hildegarde [going straight on]. For the last 
day or two father had been giving me such queer 
little digs every now and then that I began to 
suspect he knew who Sampson Straight was. So 
I asked him right out this morning— he was in 
bed— and he had to acknowledge he did know and 
that you told him. 

Tranto. Well, I didn't exactly tell him. He 
sort of guessed, and I 



90 THE TITLE 

Hildegarde [calmly, relentlessly]. You told 
him. 

Tranto. No. I merely admitted it. You 
think I ought to have denied it? 

Hildegarde. Of course you ought to have de- 
nied it. 

Tranto. But it was true. 

Hildegarde. And if it was ? 

Tranto. If it was true, how could I deny it? 
You've just said you hate liars. 

Hildegarde [losing self -control]. Please don't 
be absurd. 

Tranto [a little nettled], I apologise. 

Hildegarde. What for? 

Tranto. For having put you in the wrong. 
It's such shocking bad diplomacy for any man to 
put any woman in the wrong. 

Hildegarde [angrily] . Man — woman ! Man — 
woman! There you are! It's always the same 
with you males. Sex! Sex! Sex! 

Tranto [quite conquering his annoyance; per- 
suasively]. But I'm fatally in love with you. 

Hildegarde. Well, of course, there you have 
the advantage of me. 

Tranto, Don't you care a little 

Hildegarde [letting herself go]. Why should 
I care ? What have I done to make you imagine I 
care? It's quite true that I've saved your news- 
paper from an early grave. It was suffering from 
rickets, spinal curvature, and softening of the 



ACT III 91 

brain, and I've performed a miraculous cure on it 
with my articles. I'm Sampson Straight. But 
that's not enough for you. You can't keep sen- 
timent out of business. No man ever could. You'd 
like Sampson Straight to wear blouses and 
breeches for you, and loll on sofas for you, and 
generally offer you the glad eye. It's an insult. 
And then on the top of all you go and give the 
whole show away to papa, in spite of our under- 
standing, and if papa hadn't been the greatest 
dear in the world you might have got me into the 
most serious difficulties. 

Tranto [equably, after a pause']. I don't think 
I'll ask myself to stay for lunch. 
Hildegarde. Good morning. 
Tranto [near the door]. I suppose I'd better 
announce that he's died very suddenly under mys- 
terious circumstances ? 
Hildegarde. Who ? 
Tranto. Sampson Straight. 
Hildegarde. And what about my new article, 
that you've got in hand.^^ 

Tranto. It can be a posthumous article, in a 
black border. 

Hildegarde. Indeed! And why shouldn't 
Sampson Straight transfer his services to another 
paper? There are several who'd jump at him. 
Tranto. I never thought of that. 
Hildegarde. Naturally ! 
Tranto. He shall live. [A pause. Tranto 



n THE TITLE 

bowsy arid exit, hack. Hildegarde subsides once 
more on to the sofa.^ 

Enter Culver, in his velvet coat, L 

Culver [softly, with sprightliness^. Hello, 
Sampson { 

Hildegarde. Dad, please don't call me that. 

Culver. Not when we're alone? Why? 

Hildegarde. I — I — Dad, I'm in a fearful state 
of nerves just now. Lost my temper, and all sorts 
of calamities. 

Culver. Really ! I'd no idea. I gathered that 
the interview between you and your mother had 
passed quite smoothly. 

Hildegarde. Oh! That! 

Culver. What do you mean— '*0h ! ThatT? 

Hildegarde [standing ; in a new, less gloomy 
tone~\. Papa, what are you doing out of bed? 
You're very ill. 

Culver. Well, I'd managed to dress before 
your mother and Johnnie came. As soon as they'd 
imparted to me the glad tidings that baronetcies 
were off I felt so well I decided to come down and 
thank you for your successful efforts on behalf 
of the family well-being. I'm no longer your 
father. I'm your brother. 

Hildegarde. It was Johnnie did it. 

Culver. It wasn't — / know. 

Hildegarde [exasperated^. I say it was! 



ACT III 93 

[Apologetically.^ So sorry, dad. \_Kisses him.^ 
Where are they, those two? [Sits.~\ 

Culver. Mother and John? Don't know. I 
fancy somebody called as I came down. 

Hildegarde. Called! Before lunch! Who 
was it? 

Culver, Haven't the faintest. 

Enter John, hack 

John [^proudly]. I say, good people! New 
acquaintance of mine. Just looked in. Met him 
at the Automobile this morning with Skewes. I 
was sure you'd all give your heads to see the old 
chap, so I asked him to lunch on the chance. 
Dashed if he didn't accept ! You see we'd been 
talking a bit about politics. He's the most cele- 
brated man in London. I doubt if there's a fellow 
I admire more in the whole world, — or you either. 
He's knocked the mater flat already. Between 
ourselves, I really asked him because I thought 
he might influence her on this baronetcy business. 
However, that's all off now. What are you staring 
at? 

Culver. We're only bursting with curiosity to 
hear the name of this paragon of yours. As a 
general rule I like to know beforehand whom I'm 
going to lunch with in my own house. 

John. It's Sampson Straight. 

Hildegarde {^springmg up^. Sampson Str 



94 THE TITLE 

Cvlver Icalmlt;^. Keep your nerve, Hilda. 
Keep your nerve. 

John. I thought I wouldn't say anything till 
he'd actually arrived. He mightn't have come at 
all. Then what a fool I should have looked if I'd 
told you he mas coming! Tranto himself doesn't 
know him. Tranto pooh-poohed the idea of me 
ever meeting him, Tranto did. Well, I've met 
him, and he's here. I haven't let on to him that 
I know Tranto. I'm going to bring them to- 
gether and watch them both having the surprise 
of their lives. 

Culver. John, this is a great score for you. I 
admit I've never been more interested in meeting 
any one. Never! 

Enter parlourmaid, back 

Parlourmaid, Miss Starkey, sir. 

Culver [^cheer-fully^, I'll see her soon. [Pull- 
ing himself up suddenly; in an alarmed, gloomy 
tone.^ No, no! I can't possibly see her. 

Parlourmaid. Miss Starkey says there are sev- 
eral important letters, sir. 

Culver, No, no ! I'm not equal to it. 

HUdegarde [confidentially']. What's wrong, 
dad? 

Culver [to HUdegarde^. She'll give me notice 
the minute she knows she can't call me Sir Arthur. 
[Shudders.] I quail. 



ACT III 95 

Enter Mrs. Culver and Sampson Straight, hack. 

[The parlourmaid holds the door for them, 
and then exits.^ 

Mrs. Culver. This is my husband. Arthur, 
dear — Mr. Sampson Straight. And this is my lit- 
tle daughter. [Hilda hows. John surveys the 
scene with satisfaction.^ 

Culver [recovering his equipoise; shaking hands 
heartily^. Mr. Straight, delighted to meet you. 
I simply cannot tell you how unexpected this 
pleasure is. 

Straight. You're too kind. 

Culver [gaily^ . I doubt it. I doubt it. 

Straight. I ought to apologise for coming in 
like this. But I've been so charmingly received 
by Mrs. Culver 

Mrs. Culver. You've been so charming about 
my boy, Mr. Straight. 

Straight. I was so very greatly impressed by 
your son this morning at the Club that I couldn't 
resist the opportunity he gave me of visiting his 
home. What I say is : like parents, like child. I'm 
an old-fashioned man. 

Mrs. Culver. No one would guess that from 
your articles in The Echo. Of course they're 
frightfully clever, but you know I don't quite 
agree with all your opinions. 

Straight. Neither do I. You see — there's al- 



96 THE TITLE 

ways a difference between what one thinks and 
what one has to write. 

Mrs. Culver. I'm so glad. [Culver starts and 
looks rou/nd.^ What is it, Arthur? 

Culver, Nothing! I thought I heard the ice 
cracking. IHildegarde begins to smile.'] 

Straight [looking at the floor; simple/']. Ice.? 

Mrs. Culver. Arthur! 

Straight. It was still thawing when I came in. 
As I was saying, I'm an old-fashioned man. And 
I'm a provincial — and proud of it. 

Mrs. Culver. But, my dear Mr. Straight, real- 
ly, if you'll excuse me, you look as if you never 
left the pavements of Piccadilly. 

Culver. Say the windows of the Turf Club, 
darling. 

Straight [serenely]. No. I live very, very 
quietly on my little place, and when I feel the 
need of contact with the great world I run over 
for the afternoon to — St. Ives. 

Mrs. Culver. How remarkable ! Then that ex- 
plains how it is you're so deliciously unspoilt. 

Straight. Do you mean my face? 

Mrs. Culver. I meant you don't seem at all to 
realise that you're a very great celebrity in Lon- 
don; very great indeed. A lion of the first order. 

Straight [simply]. A lion? 

Culver. You're expected to roar, Mr. Straight. 

Straight. Roar? 

Mrs. Culver. It may interest you to know that 



ACT III 97 

my little daughter also writes articles in The 
Echo. Yes, about war cookery. But of course 
you wouldn't notice them. [^Hildegarde moves 
away.'] I'm afraid [apologetically] your mere 
presence is making her just a wee bit nervous. 

Hildegarde [from a distance , striving to control 
herself]. Oh, Mr. Sampson Straight. There's 
one question I've been longing to ask you. I al- 
ways ask it of literary lions — and tigers. 

Straight. Tigers ? 

Hildegarde. Do you write best in the morning 
or do you burn the midnight oil.'* 

Straight. Oil.? 

Mrs. Culver. Do sit down, Mr. Straight. [She 
goes imploringly to Hildegarde, who has lost con- 
trol of herself and is getting a little hysterical 
with mirth. Aside to Hildegarde.] Hilda! 
[John, puzzled and threatening, also approaches 
Hildegarde.] 

Culver [sittim^g down by Straight]. And so, 
although you prefer a country life, the lure of 
London Iftis been too strong for you in the end. 

Straight. I came to town on business. 

Culver. Ah ! 

Straight. The fact is, business of the utmost 
importance. Perhaps I may be able to interest 
you in it. 

Culver, Now we're getting hotter. 

Straight. Hotter ? 

Culver. Go on, go on, Mr. Straight. 



98 THE TITLE 

Straight. To tell you the truth 

Culver, Always a wise thing to do. 

Straight. One of my reasons for accepting 
your son's kind invitation was that I thought 
that conceivably you might be willing to help in 
a great patriotic scheme of mine. Naturally you 
show surprise. 

Culver. Do I.^^ Then I'm expressing myself 
badly. I'm not in the least surprised. It is the 
contrary that would have surprised me. 

Straight. We may possibly discuss it later. 

Culver. Later? Why later? Why not at 
once? I'm full of curiosity. I hate to let the 
grass grow under my feet. 

Straight ^looking at the floor. 1 Grass? 
\^With a faint mechanical laugh.^ Ah yes, I see. 
A figure of speech. Well, I'm starting a little lim- 
ited liability syndicate. 

Culver. Precisely what I thought. Yes? 

Straight. The End-the-war Syndicate. 

John lapproaching~\. But surely you aren't 
one of those pacifists, Mr. Straight ! You've al- 
ways preached fighting it out to a finish. 

Culver. Not a pacifist, boy. A syndicalist. 

Straight. The object of my syndicate is cer- 
tainly to fight to a finish, but to finish in about a 
week — by means of my little syndicate. 

Culver. Splendid ! But there is one drawback. 
New capital issues are forbidden under the De- 
fence of the Realm Act. 



ACT III 99 

Straight. Even when the object is to win the 



warr 



? 

Culver. My dear sir, the Treasury would never 
permit such a thing. 

Straight. Well, we needn't have a limited com- 
pany. Perhaps after all it would be better to 
keep it quite private. 

Cvlver. Oh! It would. And what is the cen- 
tral idea of this charming syndicate? 

Straight. The idea is — {looking round cau- 
tiously'] — a new explosive. 

Culver. Again, precisely what I thought. 
Your own invention .f^ 

Straight. No. A friend of mine. It truly is 
the most marvellous explosive. 

Culver. I suppose it bangs everything. 

Straight {simply']. Oh, it does. A develop- 
ment of trinitrotoluol on new lines. I needn't say 
that my interest in the affair is purely patriotic. 

Culver. Of course. Of course. 

Straight. I can easily get all the capital I 
need. 

Culver. Of course. Of course. 

Straight. But I'm not in close touch with the 
official world, and in a matter of this kind official 
influence is absolutely essential to success. Now 
you are in touch with the official world. I shouldn't 
ask you to subscribe, though if you cared to do so 
there would be no objection.. And I may say that 
the syndicate can't help making a tremendous lo": 



100 THE TITLE 

of money. When I tell you that the new ex- 
plosive is forty-seven times as powerful as trini- 
trotoluol itself 

Culver. When you tell me that, Mr. Straight, 
I can only murmur the hope that you haven't got 
any of it in your pocket. 

Straight [simpli/^. Oh no! Please don't be 
alarmed. But you see the immense possibilities. 
You see how this explosive would end the war prac- 
tically at once. And you'll understand of course 
that although my articles in The Echo have ap- 
parently caused considerable commotion in Lon- 
don, and given me a position which I am glad to 
be able to use for the service of the Empire, my 
interest in mere journalism as such has almost 
ceased since my friend asked me to be secretary 
and treasurer of the syndicate. I couldn't refuse 
to join the syndicate — could I? — even if it in- 
volves me dropping my articles altogether. 

Culver. I agree; you couldn't refuse. . . . 
And so you're the secretary and treasurer? 

Straight. Yes. We don't want to have sub- 
scribers of less than £100 each. If you cared to 
look into the matter — I know you're very busyi 
but a mere glance 

Ctdver. Just so — a mere glance. 

Enter Tranto, excitedly 

Hildegarde [nearer the door than the rest"]. 
Again ^ 



ACT III 101 

Tranto [^rather loudlly and not specially to Hil- 
degarde^. Terrible news! I've just heard and I 
rushed back to tell you. Sampson Straight has 
died very suddenly in Cornwall. Bright's disease. 
He breathed his last in his own potato patch. 
[Aside to Hildegarde, m response to a gesture 
from her.^ I'm awfully sorry. The poor fellow 
simply had to expire. 

Mrs. Culver [to Tranto^. Now this just shows 
how the most absurd rumours do get abroad ! 
Here is Mr. Sampson Straight. I'm so glad you've 
come, because you've always wanted to meet him 
in the flesh. 

Tranto [^to Straight^. Are you Sampson 
Straight ? 

Straight. I am, sir. 

Tranto. The Sampson Straight who lives in 
Cornwall .f' 

Straight. Just so. 

Tranto. Impossible ! 

Straight. Pardon me. One moment. I was 
told there was a danger of my being inconvenienced 
in London by one of these military raids for 
rounding up slackers, and as I happen to have a 
rather youthful appearance, I took the precaution 
of bringing with me my birth-certificate and reg- 
istration card. [Produces themJ] 

Tranto [glancing at the card']. And it's really 
you who write those brilliant articles in The Echo? 



lOS THE TITLE 

Straight. "Brilliant" — I won't say. But I do 
write them. 

Tranto. Well, this is the most remarkable in- 
stance of survival after death that I ever came 
across. 

Straight, I beg your pardon. 

Tranto. You're dead, my fine fellow. Your 
place isn't here. You ought to be in the next 
world. You're an impostor. 

Straight \^to Mrs. Culver']. I'm not quite sure 
that I understand. Will you kindly introduce me? 

Mrs. Culver. I'm so sorry. This is Mr. 
Tranto, proprietor and editor of The Echo — 
[apologetically, with an uneasy smile] a great hu- 
mourist. 

Straight [thunder struck ; aside]. Well, I'm 
damned ! [His whole demeanour changes. Never- 
theless, while tacitly admitting that he is found 
out, he at once resumes his mild calmness. To Cul- 
ver.] I've just remembered an appointment of 
vital importance. I'm afraid our little talk about 
the syndicate must be adjourned. 

Culver. I feared you might have to hurry 
away. [Straight bows as a preliminary to de- 
parture. John, deeply humiliated, averts his 
glance from everybody.] 

Tranto. Here ! But you can't go off like this. 

Straight. Why.? Have you anything against 
me.f^ 

Tranto. Well 



ACT III 103 

Straight. I can afford to be perfectly open. 
It's true that I've been in prison; but for a quite 
respectable crime. Bigamy, with extenuating cir- 
cumstances. There is nothing else. 

Mrs. Culver [greatly upset^. Dear, dear! 

Straight [to Tranto^. Do you wish to detain 
me? 

Tranto. 1 simply haven't the heart to do it. 
[Waves a hand.^ 

Straight. May I say before leaving that I'm 
the only genuine Sampson Straight in the United 
Kingdom, and that in my opinion it was a gross 
impertinence on the part of your contributor to 
steal my name. 

Culver. So it was. But you see if you'd been 
named Crooked, as you ought to have been, you'd 
have been spared that annoyance. 

Hildegarde [stopping Straight near the door 
as he departs with more hows'] . Good-bye ! [She 
holds out her hand with a smile.] Good luck! 

Straight [taking her hand]. Madam, I thank 
you. You evidently appreciate the fact that when 
one lives solely on one's wits, little mishaps are 
hound to occur from time to time, and that too 
much importance ought not to be attached to 
them. This is only my third slip, and I am fifty- 
five. [Exit hack.^^ 

Mrs. Culver [to Hildegarde^ gently surprised]. 
Darling, surely you need not have been quite so 
effusive I 



104 THE TITLE 

Hildegarde, You see, I thought I owed him 
something — [with meanmg and effect^ as it was 
I who stole his name. 

Mrs. Culver [utterly puzzled for a moment; 
then, when she understands, rushing to Hildegarde 
and embracing her^ . Oh ! My wonderful girl ! 

John [feebly and stiU humiliated^. Stay me 
with flagons ! 

Hildegarde [to her mother']. How nice you 
are about it, mamma! 

Mrs. Culver. But I'm very proud, my pet. Of 
course I think you might have let me into the 
secret 

Culver. None of us were let into the secret, 
Hermione, — I mean until comparatively recent 
times. It was a matter between Hilda's conscience 
and her editor. 

Mrs. Culver. Oh! I'm not complaining. I'm 
so relieved she didn't write those dreadful cookery 
articles. 

Hildegarde. But do you mean to say you 
aren't frightfully shocked by my advanced poli- 
tics, mamma? 

Mrs. Culver. My child, how naive you are, 
after all! A woman is never shocked, though of 
course at times it may suit her to pretend to be. 
Only men are capable of being shocked. As for 
your advanced politics, as you call them, can't 
you see that it doesn't matter what you write so 
long as you are admired by the best people. It 



ACT III 105 

isn't views that are disreputable, it's the per- 
sons that hold them. 

Culver. I hope that's why you so gracefully 
gave way over the baronetcy, my dear. 

Mrs. Culver Icontinuing to HUdegarde']. 
There's just one thing I should venture to sug- 
gest, and that is that you cease at once to be a 
typist and employ one yourself instead. It's most 
essential that you should live up to your position. 
Oh! I'm very proud of you. 

HUdegarde. I don't quite know what my posi- 
tion is. According to the latest news I'm dead. 
iChallengingly to Tranto.-] Mr. Tranto, you're 
keeping rather quiet, nearly as quiet as John 
IJohn changes his seat], but don't you think you 
owe me some explanation.? Not more than a quar- 
ter of an hour ago in this very room it was dis- 
tinctly agreed between us that you would not kill 
Sampson Straight, and now you rush back in a 
sort of homicidal mania, 

Mrs. Culver. Oh! I'd no idea Mr. Tranto 
had called already this morning! 

HUdegarde. Yes. I told him all about every- 
thing and we came to a definite understanding. 
Mrs. Culver. Oh ! 

Tranto. I'm only too anxious to explain. I 
killed Sampson for the most urgent of all possible 
dreams. The Government is thinking of givmg 
him a baronetcy ! ! 

Culver. Not my baronetcy ? 



106 THE TITLE 

Tranto. Precisely. 

Mrs. Culver. But this is the most terrible 
thing I ever heard of. 

Tranto. It is. I met one of my chaps in the 
street. He was coming here to see me. [To Cul- 
ver.'] Your answer was expected this morning. 
It didn't arrive. Evidently your notions about 
titles had got abroad, and the Government has 
decided to offer a title to Sampson Straight this 
afternoon if you refuse. 

Culver. But how delightfully stupid of the 
Government. 

Tranto. On the contrary it was a really bril- 
liant idea. Sampson Straight is a great literary 
celebrity, and he'd look mighty well in the Hon- 
ours List. Literature's always a good card to " 
play for Honours. It makes people think that 
Cabinet Ministers are educated. 

Hildegarde.-— Bui I've spent half my time in 
attacking the Government ! 

Tranto. Do you suppose the Government 
doesn't know that.? In creating you a baronet 

[gazes at her] it would gain two advantages, 

it would prove how broad-minded it is, and it 
would turn an enemy into a friend. 

Hildegarde. But surely the silly Government 
would make some enquiries first ! 

Culver. Hilda, do remember what your mother 
said, and try to live up to your position. It 



ACT III 107 

isn't the Government that makes enquiries. It's 
the Government that gets things done. 

Tranto. You perceive the extreme urgency of 
the crisis. I had to act instantly. I did act. I 
slew the fellow on the spot, and his obituary will 
be in my late extra. The danger was awful- 
greater even than I realised at the moment, be- 
cause I didn't know till I got back here that there 
was a genuine and highly unscrupulous Sampson 
Straight floating about. 

Mrs. Culver. Danger? What danger? 
Tranto. Danger of the Government falling, 
dear lady. You see, it's like this. Assuming that 
the Government off^ers a baronetcy to Sampson 
Straight, and the ofFer becomes public property, 
as it infallibly would, then there are three alterna- 
tives. Either the Government has singled out for 
honour a person who doesn't exist at all; or it has 
sought to turn a woman [glancmg at Hilda'] into 
a male creature and the forbear of an endless series 
of future baronets; or it is holding up to public 
admiration an ex-convict. Choose which theory 
you hke. In any case the exposure would mean 
the immediate ruin of any Government. 

midegarde [_to Tranto]. I always thought 
you wanted the Government to fall. 

Culver. Good heavens, my gifted child! No 
enlightened patriotic person wants the Govern- 
ment to fall. All enlightened and patriotic per- 
sons want the Government to be afraid of falling. 



108 THE TITLE 

There jou have the whole of war pohtics in a 
nutshelL If the British Government fell the efFect 
on the Allied cause would be bad and might be 
extremely bad. But that's not the real explana- 
tion. The real explanation is that no one wants 
the Government to fall because no one wants to 
step into the Government's shoes. However, 
thanks to Tranto's masterly presence of mind in 
afflicting Sampson Straight with a disease that 
kills like prussic acid, the Government can no 
longer give Sampson a title and the danger to 
the Government is therefore over. 

Tranto. Over ! I wish it was ! Supposing the 
Government doesn't happen to see mj late extra 
in time! Supposing the offer of a baronetcy to 
Sampson Straight goes forth! The mischief will 
be done. Worst of all, supposing the only genuine 
Sampson Straight hears of it and accepts it ! A 
baronetcy given to a bigamist ! No Government 
could possibly survive the exposure. 

Mrs, Culver. Not even if it's survival was nec- 
essary to the success of the Allied cause.? 

Culver IgloomiUj, shakvng Us head]. My dear, 
Tranto is right. This great country has always 
insisted first of all, and before anything else what- 
ever, on the unsullied purity of the domestic life 
of its public men. Let a baronetcy be given, or 
even offered, to a bigamist— and this great coun- 
try would not hesitate for one second, not one 
second. 



ACT III 109 

Tranto. The danger still exists. And only 
one man in this world can avert it. 

Culver. You don't mean me, Tranto.? 
Tranto. I understand that you have neither 
accepted nor refused the offer. You must accept 
it instantly. Instantly. [A silence. John begins 
to creep towards the door back, and Hildegarde 
towards the door L.~\ 

Mrs. Culver [^firmly']. John, where are you go- 
ing.? 

John. Anywhere. 

Mrs. Culver. Have you still got that letter 
to Lord Woking in which your father accepts the 
title? 

John. Yes. 

Mrs. Culver. Come here. Let me see it. [She 
inspects the envelope of the letter and returns it 
to John.^ Yes, that's right. Now listen to me. 
Get a taxi at once and drive to Lord Woking's, 
and insist on seeing Lord Woking, and give him 
that letter with your own hand. Do you under- 
stand.? lExit HUdegarde L.] The stamp will 
be wasted, but never mind. Fly ! 

John. It's a damned shame. [Mrs. Culver 
smiles calmly.^ 

Culver [shaking John's flaccid hand] . So it is. 
But let us remember, my boy, that you and I are 
— are doing our bit. [Pushes him violently to- 
wards the door.'] Get along. [Exit John, back.] 
Tranto [looking rownd]. Where's Hildegarde.? 



110 THE TITLE 

Mrs. Culver. She went in there. 

Tranto. I must just speak to her. 

[Exit Tranto^ L.l 

Mrs. Culver [with a gesture towards the door 
L]. There's something between those two. 

Culver. I doubt it [with a sigh^. 

Mrs. Culver. What do you mean — you doubt 
it? 

Culver. They're probably too close together 
for there to be anything between them. 

Mrs. Culver [shakes her head, smiling sceptical- 
ly^. The new generation has no romance. [In a 
new tone.~\ Arthur, kiss me. 

Culver. I'm dashed if I do ! 

Mrs. Culver. Then I'll kiss you! [She gives 
him a long kiss.^ 

The lunch sounds during the embrace. Startled, 
they separate. 

Culver. Food! 

Mrs. Culver [with admiring enthusiasrrijt 
You've behaved splendidly. 

Culver. Yes, that's what you always say when 
you've won and I — ^haven't. [She kisses him 
agavn.^ 

Enter the parlourmaid, hack 

Parlourmaid. Miss Starkey is still waiting, sir. 

Culver. Inexorable creature! I won't — I will 

not — [suddenly remembering that he has nothing 



ACT III 111 

to fear from Miss Starkey; gaily]. Yes, I'll see 
her. She must lunch with us. May she lunch with 
us, Hermione? 

Mrs. Culver [submissively']. Why, Arthur, of 
course! [To parlourmaid.] Miss Starkey can 
have Master John's place. Some lunch must be 
kept warm for Master John. [As the 'parlourmaid 
is leaving.] One moment — bring up some cham- 
pagne, please. 

Parlourmaid. Yes, madam. 

[Exit parlourmaid.] 

Culver. Come along, I'm hungry. [Leading 
her toward the door. Then stopping.] I say. 
... Oh well, never mind. 

Mrs. Culver. But what? 

Culver. You're a staggering woman, that's all. 
[Exit Culver and Mrs. Culver, back.] 

Enter Hildegarde and TrantOy L 
HiUegarde [plaintively , as they enter]. I told 
you my nerves were all upset, and yet you ran off 
before I — before I— and now it's lunch time ! 

Tranto [facing her suddenly]. Hilda! I will 
now give you my defence. [He kisses her.] 

Enter Culver, back, in time to interrupt the em- 
brace 
Culver. Excuse me. My wife sent me to ask 
if you'd lunch, Tranto. I gather that you mil 
[Curtain.] 



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